


Secret Tunnels from Madrid to Sicily

by PrincessSmuttButt



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bad Friend Trio, Britain, Depression, England's eyebrows, Feels, Help, Italy Brothers, M/M, OW, Romano, Spanish, Triggers, USUK - Freeform, Why Did I Write This?, Writer, affair, btt, gayyyyyy, gerita - Freeform, italy family, professor/student, sicilian, spamano - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 98,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSmuttButt/pseuds/PrincessSmuttButt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Antonio Fernández Carriedo begins work as a professor at a prestigious university in Britain, one of his students, a Sicilian boy who goes by the name Romano, immediately catches his eye. He is a clearly gifted writer, who closes himself off in the wake of a dark and painful history. Even wrapped in his darkness, pushing everyone away, Toni finds himself determined to bring out the potential within Romano...They drag each other into a passionate, inevitable affair--doomed, they know, to end in flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone, welcome to my story (:
> 
> ¡¡¡¡¡¡TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!!!!
> 
> child abuse, child neglect, depression, anxiety, reference to self-harm, suicidal thoughts.
> 
> take care of yourself, love. 
> 
> all right now that that's squared away, read on, lovelies!
> 
> the story is complete, with 30 chapters, and i'll update every three days or so.
> 
> spamano is, for many reasons, one of my favorite ships not just in hetalia, but of all time. there are a lot of nuances to it and it can be represented in a lot of ways. i've always seen the relationship between Spain and Romano as very, very affectionate and loving, but also pretty tough. they're very different people with different needs and different perspectives.
> 
> ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I have an unhealthy obsession with spamano.
> 
> also i have a kink for professorxstudent relationships.
> 
> so i wrote about it.
> 
> there's a lot of spanish/sicilian/italian that i've incorporated into the story, none of which is my native tongue (though I do know Spanish pretty well)--also wow it's hard to find Sicilian translations of things they should include it in google translate. the point is, if I make any glaring mistakes you are aware of, don't be afraid to point them out.
> 
> enjoy this story! i poured my heart and soul into it, and i hope you like it 
> 
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

**1**

**Your Name Sounds Spanish, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._            

 

* * *

 

            Professor Fernández—or Toni, as he begged his students to call him—had been teaching for long enough that he could see a black sheep in a crowd when it appeared. Could pick out the sharp from the dull, the bright from the dim. And he had never before seen a student as gifted as the dark, sulking young man that took his seat as far as possible down the table. He hadn’t seen any of his work yet, hadn’t heard any of his opinions or analyses, hadn’t even heard him speak or met his eyes. But he could tell, as the young man pulled out a pure black notebook and whisked a pen from behind his ear, that he was gifted. He was waiting to be discovered, hidden within himself, too comfortable in the shadows to allow himself into the light.

            That was how Toni saw it, anyway. Although his friends might have told you that he was just very good at deluding himself and making things seem more dramatic than they were (such a Spanish thing, after all!). But Toni was sure about it this time.

            “ _Bienvenidos a todos_ ,” he greeted once the clock hit six o’clock. His students stopped what they were doing and looked up at him, some with furrowed brows. The gifted student in the back, though he did stop his scribbles, simply crossed his arms and looked toward an invisible elephant in the corner of the room.

            “Ah, sorry! Sometimes I forget that not everybody here speaks Spanish,” Toni laughed. “Let me start over. Welcome everybody to your first day of this creative writing seminar. I do look forward to a good semester with all of you!”

            He tried to catch the eye of the young man with the pout when he smiled, but the student seemed determined to avoid any contact at all. Toni smiled anyway and clapped his hands together and began the class.

            Of course, he began with attendance. The young man who had caught his eye was revealed to have an interesting name, as well.

            Lovino Vargas.

            It sounded Spanish.

            As Toni predicted (he had seen a few students with demeanors like the gifted one), the young man said not a word. For most of the two-hour class he sat scribbling in his notebook. With that ever lasting pout. But toward the end of class, Toni asked the class to write a paragraph—just a few sentences—about anything they wanted. Anything that was on their mind. Absolutely anything. They did as they were told and passed their work back to him. Then they were gone, like smoke, just as swiftly as they had appeared, leaving him alone in the room while they disappeared into the night. The gifted student had perhaps been the very first out the door, notebook tucked under his arm.

            Exhausted and curious and still reeling from the beautiful opinions and words and thoughts of his new students, Toni collapsed onto the nearest chair and put his feet up onto the table. And began to read through their assignments. There were many talented students in the class. Some wrote little poems that made him smile, some wrote about their expectations or hopes for the class, some wrote little drabbles and creative whims. By the time he reached the last, he was smiling the smile of a true writing instructor.

            The last one was written in a hand that seemed, in itself, haphazard. As if the words had been written by someone in a state of fear and apprehension, rushed and terrified of something. And yet the letters seemed dark and careful, engraved into the paper. The name at the top was crisp and clear, regardless of the handwriting’s inherent messiness: _Romano Vargas._ Even though his name was not Romano. It was Lovino.

Lovino Vargas had written a poem—or something that at least resembled a poem—in Italian. A language Toni prided himself on knowing a little bit of (he had lived in Italy for a few years in his youth, but had since forgotten most of it). There was no punctuation or syntax, nothing, really, to indicate that it was a part of any language at all. They were words, put together to create images that seemingly had nothing to do with each other. To completely understand the content, Toni had to look up a few translations, though he was able to understand most of it himself.

            _marinara pieces of paper stray cat_

_sleep jacket overstuffed with lasagna_

_guitar water candles at night_

_island renaissance not-talented-at-all_

_chapels volcano cheap tickets_

_tourist tourist tourist the color blue_

_brother baby brother pedestals_

_grandfather paint 17 th century florence_

The poem meant nothing to him. None of these words were truly resonant with his soul, made him particularly emotional or nostalgic, put a tear in his eye or in his heart. And yet it spoke to him on a level that could not be described in words. There was darkness in this poem, shadows dancing between the syllables, an intense angst running in the black ink. He had read enough literature to recognize at least that much. Toni read the poem over and over again after rewriting it on a piece of paper in his native Spanish tongue, drank in the details of his handwriting sprawled across the parchment. He tried to put together the pictures of every word into some kind of coherent message or story, but couldn’t. Toni had never wanted to decipher such an indecipherable poem before.

            And in his career as a university professor, Toni had encountered a lot of indecipherable poems.

            Just nothing like this.

            Nothing in this handwriting. Written under the brooding eye of such an evidently gifted student such as Lovino Vargas.

            Antonio Fernández Carriedo had been a writing and literature professor in universities for a while now—when asked, he would tell you nothing less vague than ‘more than five years.’ He had travelled around the world teaching, because in the midst of his career as a writer, he needed a way to pay the bills. Teaching others to take part in his passions wasn’t a bad place to start, he had decided. He had first begun, of course, in his hometown of Madrid. From there he had begun his travels: Mexico City, Valparaíso, Quito, Buenos Aires, other cities in Spain, New York City, Los Angeles, Toronto, Lisbon. He had never spent very much time in a single place for various reasons, though he had loved every moment of every day that he spent teaching. Generally he taught creative writing and literature, specifically Spanish literature, while he engaged in his own writing.

            Now he found himself in a rather rural area in northern Britain, home of a prestigious private university that was renowned for its international presence. Students from all over the world applied and, once accepted to one of the various rigorous programs, attended. To his surprise, Toni had been actively recruited by the university dean (a man with a very refined air and fantastic eyebrows) after the publication of his first novel. Now he was writing and teaching a few creative seminars—one of which was a night class from 6:00-8:00pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, attended by Lovino Vargas.

            “Anything interesting happening yet?”

            The next day Toni was having coffee with another professor at the university. A rather eccentric but unbelievably brilliant linguist from Paris named François Bonnefoy. He and Toni worked in the same building and saw a lot of each other; François had been here for a few years already and had taken a liking to Toni.

            “No, not particularly,” Toni shrugged, drinking his black coffee. He liked the way that his heavy Spanish accent clashed with François’s heavy French one. France was one country in which Toni had never taught. Though he’d visited before. “A few intriguing students.”

            “ _Ah, oui?_ I could say the same.”

            “A lot of talent at this school.”

            “ _Bien sur!_ It is rather prestigious, so students are admitted very carefully.”

            “Yes, true, true.”

            Toni, of course, was thinking specifically of Lovino Vargas. Not to say that there weren’t other talented students in his classes—but he simply could not get Lovino’s nonsensical, elegant, powerful poem and dark presence from his mind.

            On Thursday, Toni’s writing class met again. Just as last time, the gifted student whose name was Lovino Vargas curled up in the chair at the end of the table and slaved away at his notebook. And though it seemed he was not paying attention at all, Toni could simply glance at the poem he had written (which he kept in his vest pocket) and know that he was listening to every single word. This time, he managed to catch his eye once. When he was looking at Lovino in a way that someone would notice, in the way that you can feel someone watching you sometimes. Lovino finally looked up from his notebook and met Toni’s eyes. And Toni noticed that they were a similar shade of green as his own. But with more clouds.

            He felt something similar then to what he had felt reading Lovino’s poem. It was an undeniable attraction, digging its roots into his soul and ripping him apart from the inside out—and yet, within that attraction, was a dark and mysterious and ugly confusion. A cloud forcing its way around his internal organs and shadows erupting in the bile of his stomach. He felt all of that simply by looking into Lovino’s dark, dark, dark eyes. It was not something he had ever felt looking at someone.

            It was a feeling so dark and twisted that Toni couldn’t tell if it was sexual desire or not.

            As the class was dismissed, he leaped at his chance. Before Lovino could evaporate, he made his way around the room and grabbed his arm and said, “Meet me after class, _sí?”_

            And so there were only two people left at 8:01pm. Toni and his gifted student with the shadowy face, Lovino Vargas. Toni took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for Lovino, who was standing silently at the far corner of the table, to come closer. Dragging his feet, Lovino obeyed.

            “What do you want?” he said. His voice was blunt and harsh and Toni had not been expecting such words to come out when he’d opened his mouth. He was slightly taken aback by the rudeness in Lovino’s voice and the anger in his face. He had expected many things, but not anger.

            “You look worried,” Toni smiled. He pointed to a nearby chair, but Lovino ignored it. It seemed he preferred to stand. “You don’t have to be worried, you’re not in trouble, _mi hijo_.”

            “I’m not worried,” he replied. He spoke English with an accent as well, an accent that was heavy and like honey in Toni’s ears. He loved the idiosyncrasies and private dances of every accent he heard.

            “Well, good.”

            “So? What do you want?”

            “ _Tranquilo, mi hijo._ I only want to talk to you for a little bit,” Toni smiled again. “I won’t keep you long, I promise.”

            “Good. I have places to be, you know.” Lovino adjusted his backpack and looked to the side, again toward that elephant in the corner of the room. He was pouting now, an expression of resigned reluctance on his face. The face an irritated child might make just before throwing a tantrum. He looked very young.

            Toni took the opportunity to look at him— _really_ look at him. He was tall. Perhaps not as tall as Toni himself, but tall nonetheless, with a skinny build; there weren’t a lot of muscles on those bones of his. He wore dark jeans covered in holes (Toni wasn’t sure if they were deliberate or not), dirty black boots, and a plain white t-shirt with a red flannel overshirt embellished with a golden necklace. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and stood with his back hunched slightly, making himself seem much smaller than he was. His skin was tan, though of course not as tan as Toni’s, and his hair was a glossy dark brown. A redder shade than Toni’s, with a single curly strand that seemed to be misbehaving. A little bit longer, too. His eyes were green and clouded and, if looked at in a different light, could even be considered more of an amber color. Toni looked at Lovino and thought to himself, What a handsome young man, if only he’d straighten his back and get that angry look off his face!

            “Where are you from, Lovino?”

            When Toni spoke again, Lovino turned to face him.

            “My name is Romano,” he said definitively. Toni raised his eyebrows.

            “Is that so? I don’t believe I have a Romano in my class...”

            Toni was just teasing, of course. But the young man before him frowned and furrowed his brow, and the way the wrinkles fit into the smooth skin of his face made it evident to Toni that he frowned and furrowed his brow quite often.

            “Don’t call me Lovino.”

            “All right, if that is your wish,” Toni shrugged. “May I ask why?”

            “Do you speak Italian?”

            “Only a little bit.”

            “Lovino sounds like Rovino. And Rovino in Italian means, ‘I ruin.’ What kind of Italian parent names their child that, eh? I’ll never understand it,” he scoffed. “Just call me Romano, all right?”

            “You are Italian, then?”

            “From Sicily. Are we done? Can I go?”

            “Ah, Sicily. You know, I thought maybe you were Spanish like me.”

            “Spanish? Why the hell would you think that?”

            “Your name,” Toni smiled. Romano blinked, perhaps taken aback by the way Toni held his gaze now. The angry expression on his face was replaced for a fleeting moment by an expression of surprise that was so like a child’s. “Your name sounds Spanish, _querido_.”

            “Don’t call me that.”

            “Oh, you speak Spanish, then?”

            “Yes.”

            “Anything else? Out of curiosity.”

            “Sicilian, Italian, Spanish, English, French, Latin, and Arabic. And a little bit of Turkish and Greek.”

            “Very impressive, Romano.”

            “Yeah, thanks. Can I go yet?”

            “One more thing. I actually wanted to ask you about the poem you wrote the other day.” Toni gestured again to the chair, but Romano still ignored it. He was grasping the strap of his backpack rather tightly and Toni couldn’t help but notice how desperately he avoided eye contact. As if looking into Toni’s eyes would allow him entrance into the deepest parts of his Sicilian soul. Toni took out the paper with Romano’s poem on it and unfolded it.

            “What about it?” he mumbled.

            “Well, you see, I’ve been trying very desperately to understand it for the past few days, and I simply can’t,” he explained, crossing one leg over the other. “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to enlighten me.”

            “There’s nothing to enlighten you about,” Romano spat. “It’s just words. That’s all.”

            “Just words? _¿En serio?”_

“Yes. Just words. You said to write whatever came to mind. So I wrote the words that came to mind. It’s not a poem, really.” His answers were terse and cold.

            “One might think so, giving it a quick look,” Toni replied, squinting at the paper, “but I think there is meaning here. I can sense it. I just can’t pinpoint it. It is very deep, I think.”

            Toni was met with silence. When he looked up at Romano’s face, it was an expression of astonishment. The young man blinked at him, words trapped behind his tight lips. Toni gave him another of his good-natured smiles.

            “You look terrified. Did I say something to frighten you?”

            “I...” he began. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just words.”

            “ _Bueno_ , your words had a powerful effect on me, Romano.”

            He stood from the chair, stretching his loose limbs and tucking the paper back into his vest. Romano was still looking at him like he was a beast that had crawled up from the depths of the earth to tell him that his poem was good.

            “That’s it? That’s why you kept me after class?” he finally said, stumbling over his words. “To talk to me about that stupid assignment?”

            “ _Lo siento_ , I know you must be busy. The life of the student is a crazy one, no?” Toni laughed. He was not one to be easily swayed by the temperaments of others—even if the temperament was downright disdainful in every way. As Romano’s was.

            “But I wanted to tell you, Romano, that I think you have a gift. There are images in these words that I can see, and I know you put them there very deliberately. They are not just words. I have been a writer for a long time now, and I see the light of a writer in those pretty eyes of yours.”

            Toni took a risk then and reached forward. Put his hand on Romano’s shoulder. As soon as his fingers made contact, Romano cringed, shrinking back with his lips pursed in distaste. So Toni withdrew and gave a smile and in the next moment Romano had turned around and rushed out of the room. Leaving Toni to wonder how a young man with potential and a handsome face like Romano had managed to become so indignant. So withdrawn. Putting out his own flames.

            And Toni decided, then and there (perhaps against his better judgment), that he was going to break through that shell of his. He was going to burrow in deep until he could pull out the bright, shining writer huddled inside—until he could discover the secret behind the words. Could figure out what could possibly be going on in Romano’s head to lead to the specific words that he had written. Toni decided that he was going to pursue the story of Romano Vargas. Was going to take Romano Vargas under his wing.

            Was going to figure out why he frowned so damn much.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooooo
> 
> someone commented that they didn't like the accents so I changed it, y'all can picture their voices in your heads anyway :P 
> 
> enjoy!

**2**

**Will There Be Tomatoes, Signor?**

 

_There are two young boys sitting in a nursery._

_The nursery is large and extravagant and bright, painted with light blues and greens, with windows around the walls to let the sun pour in. It sits nestled in the richest part of Rome. Toys are scattered all around, reorganized at the end of every day by the maids who know exactly how the little boys like their toys to be arranged. There is a rocking horse in one corner, a dollhouse (bought in case one of them had been a girl, and kept because the younger of the two so enjoyed playing with it) in another. Stuffed animals and toy soldiers and books filled with colorful images. Anything a child would want, all gathered here in this beautiful nursery with the two beautiful boys._

_The boys are brothers, though they share only one bloodline. They are half-brothers, but they look so similar they could be twins—they both have inherited the looks of their father. But the older brother is darker, in both appearance and demeanor, than his younger brother. His olive skin and dark hair he inherited from his mother. He is reading a book, flipping diligently through the pages with wrinkles in his brow and a slight pout, while his brother picks up the crayons and begins to draw with a content, oblivious smile. After getting a spanking, he has stopped drawing on the walls. The younger brother looks up at his older brother and smiles, asking him if he would like to draw as well. The older brother, though he doesn’t smile, shakes his head and begrudgingly thanks his younger brother. He continues to read his book, reminding himself to ask his father for more advanced ones when he comes home (whenever that might be)._

_When the younger brother has finished drawing, he stands up on his tiny legs and wobbles over to where his older brother sits. He plops down beside him and thrusts the picture into his face, a smile stretching out his small face and brightening the room even more than the sunlight. The older brother feels himself blushing, overwhelmed by the sheer happiness of his brother._

_“For you! For my big brother!_ Mi fratellone! _” the younger brother says. The older brother takes the picture and finally, unable to stop himself anymore, begins to smile as well. It is a drawing of two little boys holding hands, grinning. Perhaps dancing. He can’t really tell. Even so young, the older brother can recognize the talent that resides in his brother._

_“_ Bellissimo _,_ fratellino, _” he says. His younger brother throws his little arms around him and he feels very warm, very happy. In an uncharacteristic, impulsive moment, the older brother squeezes his brother tightly and plants an affectionate, sloppy kiss on his forehead. A simple means of telling him that he loves him without having to say the words. His younger brother, on the other hand, has no qualms about saying it._

_“_ Ti amo, fratellone!”

           

* * *

 

            _...why can’t you be more like your brother...?_

_...what an unsightly boy...!_

            ... _if only you had such talent..._

_..._ un bambino spregevole... _a worthless child..._

* * *

 

Romano—he wouldn’t even call himself Lovino, not if he could help it—was lying on the ground, curled on his side to feel the grass on his cheek. In a place where nobody could find him. It was a small garden with a balcony overlooking the university’s green, over-the-top landscape, and the only way to get to it was by climbing up a twisted stone staircase that was so out of the way most students didn’t know it existed. But ever since he was little, Romano had excelled at finding secret places to hide. Places where he could curl up on the ground like this.

            Here, in his secret haven, nobody would call him by his name. Nobody would look into his eyes and speak to him. Nobody would touch him, nobody would look at him, nobody would even know that he existed.

            Not that they did anyway.

            He picked at a strand of grass, pulling it straight up from the ground. He liked to imagine that he could hear the roots of the plants moving with his ear pressed to the ground, could hear the very earth moving slowly around and around its axis. He pulled at a few more strands, until his fingers were stained green with their blood. His hair was falling in his face, his eyelids blinking slowly in apparent exhaustion, and his lips were shut tightly. He wished, laying there, that he could blend into the earth. Let his useless body become one with its replenishing soils, allow himself to be stepped on and ripped up—at least if he were part of the earth, he would be fulfilling his purpose in doing so. Being stepped on and crushed and torn apart would be surviving a higher purpose.

            _I want someone to write a poem about me,_ he mused to himself. Silently. Always silently. At first he considered a love poem, but then decided that that was much too extravagant and not like him at all. What was he going to do with a love poem? Perhaps an epic, then, he thought. But no. He was not heroic enough; his spirit could never be deemed worthy for the dramatic twists and turns of an epic. He settled upon a sad, tragic little poem. An untitled one, like the ones Emily Dickinson used to write in the confines of her home in a town in America whose name Romano could not remember. That kind of poem would have been perfect.

            A soft breeze whistled by, and he could feel it just in the movement of the grass. With a rush of exhaustion, of raw and hollow sadness, he hugged himself and buried his face in the grass. Curled his knees in more tightly toward his chest, like a child. Frightened, lonely. But Romano wondered if it could be defined as still loneliness if it was, deliberately and knowingly, inflicted upon oneself. Or was loneliness by definition wanting to be surrounded by people and not being able to? Because if that was loneliness, Romano surely wasn’t lonely.

            _I want someone to write a song about me, too_. One of those sad, slow ballads that you can only listen to when you’re feeling very depressed. Romano silently laughed at himself as he imagined the melody of that song, the lyrics describing a dark and dismal young man curled up in a field of grass so that nobody could find him, wishing he could just become the earth. Wishing he could do anything but be in this place, in this body, in this world.

            For a moment, Romano closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep in that spot. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to after only a few moments. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had truly slept.

            _I want it to start raining._

_And then I’ll get wet, and it’ll be easier to melt into the earth._

_But it’ll also get more humid—or maybe more cold?_

_Do I really want it to rain?_

_Why do I want to be wet again?_

The voices in his head were acting up again. He shut his eyes more tightly and just listened to them. He had tried too many times to block them out, but he had learned to accept them. Listen to them with a bit of exasperation (sometimes with mere indifference). He pulled at the strands of grass. His entire body was starting to feel very heavy. He knew that, in a few minutes, he would begin to cry. Which was all right, because there was nobody here to see it.

            The bell in the clock tower in the center of campus—unwittingly close to where he lay—began to ring. The first three made him jump, hug himself more tightly, curl into the grass. It was noon. Most students were going to have lunch now, flowing from their classrooms with hungry smiles on their faces. Not Romano, of course. He hadn’t eaten in twelve hours, and yet couldn’t feel the slightest pang of hunger.

            _I should eat._

_But I don’t wanna eat._

_I’m going to end up inadvertently starving myself._

_But I’ll throw up if I try to eat._

Romano lay very still as the voices argued and his stomach churned, listening to the bell call out for him. Wondering how it would feel to leap from the very top and hear the ring resound above him.

 

* * *

 

            It was Tuesday, but Romano decided not to go to his writing seminar. He always felt that his writing was better when he was alone.

            _Everything is better when I’m alone._

So he found himself, as he so often did, alone in his room, sprawled on the floor, scribbling in his notebook. His black one. His favorite one. With his special pen—the one he kept behind his ear when he went out. He was writing words. Just words. Like he’d done in class last week.

            Except that they weren’t just words.

            His strange, smiling, overbearingly Spanish professor who asked his students to call him Toni had been right. Nothing Romano ever wrote was just words. Never. Even the mess he had written in class that day carried more meaning than that Spanish writer would ever be able to understand. But what frustrated Romano the most, what confused him to no end, was that the Spanish writer had noticed. Had known. Hadn’t understood the words (nobody could), but had understood that he hadn’t understood. Could never have possibly understood. Somehow, even as Romano had made his bullshit claims, that smiling Spanish professor had known that the words weren’t just words. That they were so much more than ‘just words.’

            Romano found himself becoming inexplicably and unnecessarily aggravated by the recollection. He didn’t want to remember that smiling face, the bright green eyes piercing straight through him, seeing past every frustrated lie that came out of his lips. He wished he had never written that stupid little poem, because then he might have remained in the shadows of the seminar, perhaps even nonexistent to Professor Fern...to Toni. It made his writing turn sloppy and hasty and irritated.

            He preferred writing in the dark, so all of the lights were off except for a few candles in some bowls he had brought with him from home. Having candles in the room technically wasn’t allowed (a fire hazard), but Romano had them anyway. His roommate—a quiet Japanese fellow who had taken to calling him Romano-kun rather quickly—often wasn’t in the room, and he knew he wouldn’t mind the candles anyway. He was a little bit like Romano. Reserved, tended to keep to himself. But he studied a ridiculous amount of the time and was not temperamental or prone to dramatic mood swings, like Romano was. A hard-worker. A kind person.

            _Nothing like me, actually._

He had lost track of his scribbles about an hour and a half ago. Now he was letting his mind wander and his hands put to paper the thoughts nestled in his unconscious. He would read over it afterward, when it was the middle of the night and he had to find a way to silence his sobs so as not to wake Kiku. Kiku took his sleep very seriously. For a moment Romano wondered what time it was, but then realized that it made no difference. He wouldn’t be leaving his room any time soon—unless Kiku’s loud, obnoxious American friend were to stop by, as he occasionally did. In which case Romano would act very deliberately angry and make a scene and leave. Somewhere he could be alone with his notebook and his voices.

            At one point, Romano stood from the bed and opened his refrigerator and grabbed a tomato. A large, juicy, ripe tomato. Then he returned to his place and, now nibbling on his tomato, continued to write. And his thoughts inevitably drifted back to his Spanish professor because the best tomatoes in the world were from Spain. He had learned that at a young age. The very tomato he was eating was imported from Spain. A gift from his great aunt, who spent her days roaming the streets of Almería and collecting tomatoes for her strange (but so handsome!) Italian nephew. He wondered whether Toni liked tomatoes. Surely he did. How could he have gazpacho otherwise?

            _Perhaps I’ll ask him next time I see him._

_Though I’m not particularly keen on speaking with him..._

_He seems the type to hold dinner parties, doesn’t he?_

_If he ever invited me to one, well then I’d_ have _to ask:_

_Will there be tomatoes?_

_¿Habrá tomates, Señor Toni?_

_Porque, sabe, a mi me_ encantan _los tomates._

Romano glanced at his notes and realized that he had written, over and over, ¡ _Quiero sus tomates, Señor!_ It made him laugh at himself a little bit. Would Toni have trouble finding the meaning of _that?_ Huh?

            Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Not Kiku’s soft, cautious, I’m-coming-in-so-don’t-be-naked knock. And Alfred never even bothered knocking, so it couldn’t be him. It was loud, swift rapping that drilled into his mind. _Tap tap tap tap TAP!_ He had no idea who it could be.

“Oi, calm down, I’m coming!” he screamed.

            The person knocking did not calm down. In fact, their knocks became more vigorous. They became little melodies, _tap TAP tap, tappity tap tap._ After a few moments they began to tap with both fists, _tappity tappity tap tap tappity._ It was making Romano absolutely furious. He heard a muffled voice among the taps as he dragged himself out of bed and moved to begrudgingly open the door. Who it could’ve been he had no clue. Not even the slightest idea.

            “Just who the fuck do you think you—?” he began, opening the door, but his voice disappeared when he saw the person awaiting him. Almost...almost...like looking in a very bright mirror.

            “ _Fratellone!_ It really _is_ you! They told me you were here but I almost didn’t believe them!”

            Without even giving Romano the chance to blink, his younger brother threw his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he could. Romano was completely surprised and utterly caught off-guard and could hardly react at all.

            “F...Feliciano...”

            “Lovi, Lovi, Lovi!” Feliciano cried. He started jumping, arms still encasing Romano. “Lovi, it’s been too long! Too, too long! I don’t even know how long, I lost track, even though at first I marked every single minute that we were apart—oh, Lovi! I’m so happy to see you!”

            Feliciano was, as always, speaking at the speed of light, the Italian rushing quickly and naturally from his smiling lips. His accent was familiar, though different from Romano’s own heavy Sicilian. Still completely confused, Romano hugged his brother back, wondering if maybe he had magically fallen asleep and was now dreaming. It was the most realistic way to explain how his brother, supposedly at school in Vienna, had appeared at his door in this middle-of-nowhere university of the United Kingdom.

            Though, Feliciano was right. It had been terribly long. Six years—since Romano started boarding school in Spain before coming to this university. Six years since he had even laid eyes on his brother. And in those six years, Romano realized suddenly, the warmth of Feliciano’s embrace hadn’t lessened even a little bit. It was still a little bit like sunlight, the way it pressed warmly against your skin and then spread throughout your body and made you feel light, airy, indescribably content.

            _You’re so much taller._

_Not so much stronger, though._

_That’s okay, neither am I._

_Your hugs still make me really happy,_ fratellino.

            Still talking (though Romano had kind of tuned out), Feliciano pulled away, holding Romano at arm’s length and looking into his eyes. He was taller than Romano was now. And he had always been lighter in complexion and eye-color and hair. A washed out version of himself that he had always believed to be much more attractive. Always smiling, always laughing.

            _We may be brothers—but we’re not very similar._

_Well, I guess we’re not full brothers. Just half-brothers._

_But we both have that one strand of hair that never seems to behave._

_And we both like pasta._

“Say something, Lovi!” Feliciano laughed. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

            “Ah, um, y-yeah,” Romano began. Stumbling over his words, still unsure of how to properly speak in the face of such a genuine smile. “I am, but, Feliciano...what are you doing here?”

            “I go to school here, silly!”

            “You _what?”_

“You’re being so rude,” Feliciano pouted. “I thought you’d be happy to see me, and all you can do is ask boring questions. Stupid _fratellone_.”

            “N-no, I _am_ happy to see you!” Romano found himself saying. He hadn’t really meant to say it. He lifted his hands and put them around Feliciano’s wrists, still on his shoulders. He squeezed ever so slightly. “This is just a lot to take in...I never expected to see you here, of all places, after all these years.”

            “But it has been long, hasn’t it?”

            “Yeah. Really fucking long, actually.”

            “I missed you, Lovi! Oh, how I missed you. You know I used to cry every night after you left?”

            “Shh, Feliciano, stop that—”

            “Did you miss me? Huh? Did you cry yourself to sleep, too?” Feliciano teased.

            “Of course I missed you,” Romano grumbled. Though he would never admit to Feliciano that he had indeed cried himself to sleep. Nearly every night. “I missed you a lot.”

            They were silent then, taking in the presence of each other. Romano felt the heat in his face and imagined the bright red complexion that must have taken over his cheeks. His heart was beating fast and hard like a drum in his hollow chest, his skin was tingling, he felt that he was about to burst. He wasn’t sure if he would describe this feeling as happiness—he wasn’t sure if he even remembered what that feeling was like—but it was an intense feeling rising up inside of him. A unique, nostalgic and cathartic feeling inspired by his younger brother’s ever-lasting smile and warm touch and constant contagious excitement for life. Romano stood like that, hardly able to make eye contact, while Feliciano stood across from him with a beaming smile and bright amber eyes. He hadn’t changed at all.

            Feliciano hugged him again. A real, deep hug, carrying in it the weight of six years’ worth of emotions. Romano felt tears on the edges of his eyes as he hugged his brother back. Relieved and shocked and happy and terribly sad all at once.

            _You’ve gotten so big, Feliciano._

            “Ahem.”

            Only then did Romano realize that there was another person standing at his door. A very tall, muscular, slightly intimidating young man with slick blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He stood with his back pin-straight and his arms crossed. There was no way he could be Italian, Romano realized, so he probably couldn’t understand a single word they were saying. And Romano immediately disliked him, if only for the fact that he was standing over Feliciano like a prison warden. Much too close.

            “Oh, how rude of me! Yes, yes, of course. Lovi, this is my friend and roommate, Ludwig. Ludwig, my amazing big brother, Lovino,” Feliciano said in English, pulling away and clasping his hands behind his back.

            “Pleasure to meet you.” Ludwig stretched his hand out in a very prim and proper way and Romano instantly recognized his accent as German. He stared at his outstretched hand for a few moments, felt his upper lip curl, and ignored it. Ludwig furrowed his brow.

            “Lovino, don’t be rude,” Feliciano pouted, still in English. “Shake his hand!”

            “I don’t want to,” Romano responded in Italian.

            “ _Loooviiiiiiii_ , _per favore!”_

            “ _This_ is your brother?” Ludwig grumbled.

            “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Romano said, switching almost automatically to English. “Who do you think are, anyway? Showing up at my door like this? Eh?”

            “Lovi, please don’t do this,” Feliciano said. His voice more serious now. “Just shake his hand and introduce yourself.”

            “I told you, I don’t want to. I don’t like Germans.”

            He didn’t bother switching to Italian.

            Ludwig clenched his teeth and withdrew his hand, now in a fist. But the look of frustration crossed his features for only a moment before he retained his calm composure. He turned to Feliciano.

            “I have work to do. I’ll be taking my leave now.”

            “Oh, wait, we’re coming with you,” Feliciano gushed, grabbing onto Ludwig’s sleeve. That sight sent Romano’s stomach into tumbles. Made it rise up in a storm of jealousy. “Come on, Lovi! We have so much to catch up on. I want to hear everything about España and everything about Britain and everything about _everything_!”

            “I’m not leaving my room.” Romano hadn’t even stepped out of his doorway. With a sigh, Ludwig began moving down the hall.

            “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this,” he said.

            “W-wait!” Feliciano cried. Obviously torn.

            And Romano hated that.

            _Is it so hard to choose your brother, whom you haven’t seen in six years, over some giant German blockhead?_

“Let’s have lunch tomorrow then, Lovi,” Feliciano said, a slightly defeated smile on his lips. He reached out and grabbed Romano’s hands. He was speaking in Italian again, though his voice was much more subdued. “I’ll explain everything then. And you can explain everything, too. Like I said. I want to hear everything. Okay? You will, won’t you? You’ll spend time with your poor _fratellino_?”

            Romano wanted to be angry with him for no reason at all, just as he was angry with the whole world for no reason at all, but he couldn’t. He sighed and let his hands fall into Feliciano’s. Let them be squeezed.

            “ _D’accordo_.”

            “You are the best, Lovi. Truly.” Feliciano smiled that giant smile, squeezed Romano’s hands, leaned forward, and planted a kiss on his cheek. It felt very nice.

            _I used to kiss you like that, didn’t I?_

_Shouldn’t our roles be switched?_

_I’m the older brother, after all..._

“I really am so happy to see you again,” he continued. And Romano realized that there were tears in his younger brother’s eyes. “So, so happy. I love you, Lovi.”

            “Me, too.”

            _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

“I’m really happy to see you too, Feliciano.”

            _I can cry when he leaves._

_Just don’t cry right now._

_Not until the door is closed._

_Okay, he’s gone._

_Close the door..._

_I can cry now._

Ti amo, fratellino.

            Ti amo molto.


	3. 3

**3**

**Write for Me, Querido**

                       

            _Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._      

* * *

      

 

            Toni was having a very terrible writer's block, and he couldn’t quite figure out why. It befell him on the day Lovino—Romano—didn’t come to class. He had felt a strange sense of disappointment because that was one less chance for him to take this fledgling writer, this Sicilian capsule of potential, and grow it into that masterpiece it was meant to be. Not only that, but Romano’s absence meant that Toni wouldn’t be able to read another of his strange poems. So Toni thought as he wandered the cobblestone paths of this campus, chewing on a toothpick and scratching his head with a pencil. He was carrying a notebook, but the page was blank. It was making him so frustrated. Few things, and very rarely, were able to frustrate Toni to the point that his mood was fouled, but writer's block was one of these things.

            It couldn’t be because of that kid, he told himself. It couldn’t be from how piercing his eyes were. How harsh his facial expressions were. How deep his scowl was. How smooth his skin looked. How messy and suggestive his hair was. How low and angry his voice sounded. How deep and dark everything about him seemed. There was no way it was that. Having only truly met someone once was not enough to warrant such an intense and mind-boggling writer's block. Toni bit down a little bit harder on the toothpick and stared up at the sky in exasperation.

            “ _Por favor, Dios,_ ” he sighed. “Give me something. Anything. Even a poem would do at this point.”

            (Toni very much enjoyed reading poetry, particularly that of Central and South American writers, but he almost never wrote it himself—prose came so much more naturally to him.)

            He heard footsteps and muffled voices, growing louder. He lowered his head and saw two figures walking in his direction. Their positions, though, were interesting. And as they grew closer, Toni was able to make out a man walking with his back straight and his chest out, dragging a student behind him by his ear. The student was wearing glasses, slipping steadily down his nose, had sandy blonde hair, and an expression scrunched in pain. Toni didn’t recognize him, but he immediately recognized the man who was dragging him.

            “ _Hola,_ President Kirkland.”

“Ah, Antonio. How good to see you.” The university’s president stopped, giving Toni a good-natured smile.

            He was wearing what looked like a military uniform—the only thing that Toni had ever seen him wear. Very polished, very elegant, very refined, even in the way that he pulled on the student’s ear.

            “I do hope our campus has been treating you well thus far,” President Kirkland continued. “Ah, beg pardon my rudeness. Alfred, say hello and introduce yourself to Professor Fernández.”

            “Sup,” the boy said with a nod of his head. Most definitely an American.

            “Alfred.” With that smile still plastered to his face, President Kirkland pulled harshly on the student’s ear.

            “Ow, ow, OOW!”

            “Properly now, Alfred.”

            “Hey, Prof,” he said, looking up at Toni with his blue eyes. “I’m Alfred.”

            “There’s a good lad. Manners aren’t so hard, then, are they?”

            “Sure, yeah, whatever. Wouldja let go of my ear, Prez?”

            “Very well. But if you try to run I shall have your head served to me on a silver platter.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            President Kirkland released young Alfred’s ear, and he straightened up and began rubbing it. Toni was rather fixated by the whole situation, wondering what this clueless American could have possibly done to find himself there.

            “Antonio. You look a little bit troubled. Anything with which I can be of assistance?” President Kirkland said, clasping his hands behind his back. Toni sighed and scratched his head again with the pencil. “I hope it’s not anything to do with your accommodations...”

            “No, no, nothing like that,” Toni insisted. “Just a writer’s block, that’s all.”

            “Hmm. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience in that regard. Though I might try suggesting a change of scenery?”

            “How ‘bout a muse?” Alfred interjected, still rubbing his red ear.

            “ _¿Cómo_?” Toni replied.

            “Y’know, like a sexy lady to write about. A muse. That’s what it’s called, right? Something that inspires you?”

            “Ah, _vale...”_

“As dimwitted as Alfred is, he might be onto something,” President Kirkland smiled. “Though perhaps not necessarily the ‘sexy lady’ to whom he was referring. There’s a number of inspiring people and locations at this university. Take a break from the writing, and put some time into getting to know the place. That’s my advice, anyway.”

            “Yes...thank you...” Toni said. The creative gears in his mind were beginning to turn again. “Thank you very much. Both of you.”

            “I’m glad to be of assistance. Now come, Alfred. To my office.”

            “Again, Prez?”

            “Yes, again, until you learn to hold yourself to the high standards of my institution. Come now.”

            “Aw, damn it.”

            “Have a good day, Antonio. Don’t hesitate to call upon me should you be in need of anything else in the future,” President Kirkland nodded, with a slight raise of his thick eyebrows, and continued walking down the path. Alfred young and haughty on his heels.

            “See ya, Prof. I hope you find your muse!”

            “ _Hasta luego,_ Alfred _._ ”

            “ALFRED!”

“Jesus, I’m COMING, ya damn old man...”

            Alfred hurried along, throwing Toni one last grandiose smile. A charming lad, Toni concluded. He was chuckling now as he continued walking, and he immediately heeded the words of the esteemed president and put away his notebook. A break from writing would perhaps do him good. Writing, he sometimes found, was something that just _came_ to him. Ideas that were desperate to be put onto paper appeared in his mind and he had no choice but to write them down. There was no point in trying to write down ideas that had not yet come to him. Some writers could do that—sit and think very hard until they were able to write. Toni was not one of these writers, and it would be pointless for him to keep trying.

            Get to know the place, he repeated in his head. Take a break. Get to know it. Then write. Toni smiled to himself and whistled as he walked and paid special attention to every single detail that this campus gave to him.

           

* * *

 

            Everyone was present for his creative writing seminar on Thursday, including Romano Vargas. Toni had assigned a short story for them to read—by one of his favorite authors, Gabriel García Marquez—and had them lead a discussion about it. He sat at the head of the table, tapping occasionally on the table with his pen, listening to their ideas floating around the room. They were all very bright with differing opinions and styles. Their eyes shined when they spoke, and there was intellectual light that completely filled the room. Well, almost completely. There was a single spot of darkness, a heavy cloud casting its shadows, at the corner of the table where Romano Vargas sat. At first Toni wondered if he were even listening, because he hardly looked up from his notebook. Had he even read the story, Toni wondered?

            If Toni wanted to take this fledgling writer under his wing, he would have to push him, even if it meant calling to him while he was sulking in the shadows of his cloud.

            “Romano. I want to hear your opinions of the story,” Toni said at one point. Everyone was silent, turning to face Romano. He brought his head up rapidly with a wide-eyed expression, his lips tight together and his teeth clenched. He froze, and Toni couldn’t tell if he were staring mutely into space or straight at him. “You did read the story, _sí?”_

“O-of course I read the story,” Romano huffed, finding his words. He slouched down in his chair and crossed his arms, directing his gaze toward the ground. Even from across the table Toni could see the red that had risen to his cheeks. He smiled.

            “What did you think?”

            “You can’t just ask a question like that,” he spat. A few of the students gaped at him—how could he talk like that to a _professor_? “You have to be more specific. There are a lot of aspects to the story. The plot, the writing style, the imagery, the metaphors...asking me what I thought is just too broad.”

            Toni raised his eyebrows, satisfied.

            “All right, I’ll be more specific then. What did you think of the writing style?”

            Romano clicked his tongue before speaking again. “It flows nicely. Marquez is a good storyteller. You’re at once in the story, but viewing it from the outside. It’s the kind of writing that fits very well the magical realism genre, with matter-of-fact diction that makes it blend seamlessly into mundane events.”

            He paused, and finally looked up at Toni. His gaze was electrifying—like Toni was seeing him for the first time. Arms crossed, slouched in his chair, mumbling very insightful words about Marquez’s writing style, surrounded by a dark, intense, passionate aura that was more attractive to Toni than any light could have ever been.

            “Is that good enough for you, Señor Fernández?” he said.

            “Toni, _por favor_ ,” he smiled. “And yes, that is good enough.”

            Toni held his gaze for a moment longer, and felt, dare he say it, relief when Romano did not look away. They grabbed each other’s eyes and squeezed until there was nothing left to gain and Romano turned away, curling back over his notebook. Toni continued the discussion with the other students and wondered why he couldn’t grab their eyes and squeeze, too.

            He decided not to keep Romano after class that day, as much as he wanted to speak to him. His mood seemed sour and his body seemed tired, so Toni let him be. But he was even more determined now to open up Romano’s soul and encourage all the passions and desires and ideas and beautiful, _beautiful_ words to flow out. For he knew they were there. He could _see_ them dancing beneath his skin. But they were concealed, either within his heart or within the secretive pages of that little black notebook. Toni had seen talent before—of course he had seen talent. In fact, this situation was not abnormal in the slightest. Almost each time he taught, he found himself fixated to a student, a particularly talented young writer, whom he would attempt to cultivate to the finest of artists.

            But none had been encased in such darkness, as Romano was.

            Toni tried to determine _just what_ about Romano Vargas intrigued him so. He had only spoken with him two or three times, only once in private, knew little to nothing about him...and the few times they had spoken, Romano had been bitter, indignant, borderline rude. He was just angry. Very angry at someone or something that had burrowed into his brain and was now infecting every part. So why was Toni so drawn to him, a sulky, childish boy who desperately distanced himself from others and about whom Toni knew close to nothing?

            It was a bit like writing, Toni reasoned. Sometimes you can’t control it—ideas come to you, and the only thing you can do is transfer them to paper, while they control your every muscle and thought until the full story has been dictated and transposed.            

 

* * *

 

            Toni didn’t think about Romano very much over the weekend. He decided on getting to know this city better, getting to know its people and its sights and its smells better, and in the process it just happened that Romano didn’t enter his thoughts often. On Friday he decided to take a siesta at 5:00pm, before dinner, and didn’t wake up until 5:00am the next morning, at which point he decided to go for a run across campus.

            That evening, he went out to a pub (recommended by President Kirkland himself) with François. He was introduced to a loud, self-assured German history professor named Gilbert who enjoyed hearing himself talk and was confident to a fault. But he seemed to attract fun with every step he took and he very quickly accepted Toni into he and François’s longstanding friendship. They drank and talked until they were the loudest people in the pub, François being the first to get drunk and Gilbert being the last. Then they went home and Toni woke up with a vicious hangover, something he hadn’t experienced in a while, and decided to eat tomato paste for lunch and go for another run. He wasn’t worried about what to write. Running across campus and taking siestas and getting drunk with new friends in academia and admiring the beauty of this gray, rainy country was bound to result in inspiration soon enough. He had time.

            Tuesday came before he realized it and he woke up with Romano’s face behind his eyelids. Perhaps his brain was now unconsciously associating Tuesdays and Thursdays with Romano Vargas. He felt strange, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, seeing Romano’s face projected there. Was that how it had always been with his students, he wondered? Certainly he had felt this way before about particularly talented writers that had wandered into his classrooms. Certainly he had woken up, excited to teach them and bring out their passions. Certainly, he told himself, certainly.

            Romano was in class that evening, and his complexion was brighter than usual. The pout on his lips was not so pronounced, his huffs and his puffs not so exaggerated. He still stayed curled over his notebook for the majority of class, avoiding eye contact with the others (especially Toni). But there was something different in him, in his movements, in the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinked and looked around the room when he was thinking about what to write next. A phrase, a word, that Toni wanted so badly to read.

            He decided to keep Romano after class again.

            “Romano, I want to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?”

            Silently and begrudgingly, Romano let his bag fall back onto the table as the room emptied and the two were once again left alone. Toni didn’t bother telling him to sit.

            “I want to ask you—what are you always writing in that mysterious notebook of yours?” Toni asked, with a shrewd smile and swiveling in his chair slightly. “I’m very curious.”

            “None of your business.”

            “Quick with the tongue, I see,” he laughed. Romano looked startled for a moment, as if he were just at that moment coming to the realization that he might’ve said something rude, and his lips curled in. “Don’t worry, I’m not easy to offend.”

            Romano sighed and put his hands into his pockets, and Toni wished that he would just look him in the eye and speak to him.

            “Is it a diary?”

            “I don’t have to tell you,” he mumbled.

            “ _Vale_ , you don’t have to tell me. But can I tell _you_ something, Romano?”

            “Well, nobody’s stopping you.”

            With another soft chuckle, Toni continued.

            “I still think about your poem all the time. The one from the first day of class,” he said. “This might seem strange to ask since it’s the only real writing sample I’ve seen from you, but...have you ever considered publishing?”

            Romano paused. Toni wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate silence, or if his student simply had no words to say. His expression, with the furrowed brow and the wide eyes and the tight lips, indicated a combination of surprise and confusion.

            “I...That’s not why I write,” he finally blurted.

            “ _Claro_. That’s not why any true writer writes. But if you have a talent for it, shouldn’t you take advantage? You write to write, of course—because it helps lighten the burden on your shoulders, whatever that may be. But publishing your writing does not diminish your passion for it, and does not diminish the sincerity of the writing. _¿Me entiendes, hijo?_ ”

            “ _Sí,_ ” Romano said. Though he didn’t sound completely convinced.

            “Publishing your writing does not make you a fraud. Ah, what is the word in English...the one the Americans use so often...”

            “Sell-out.”

            Toni snapped his fingers. “That’s right! Sell-out. Publishing your writing does not make you a sell-out. Your writing is still for you, but why not let others read it? Especially when it is so beautiful?”

            “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, old man,” Romano spat, resuming his characteristically indignant demeanor. “It’s not beautiful. It’s just rambles.”

            “Would you be so opposed to letting others read it?” Toni raised his eyebrows and gestured loosely to Romano’s bag. Within it lay the little black notebook.

            “Of course!” he cried. He took a step closer to the bag, as if to protect it. “O-of course I’m opposed to letting others read it.”

            “Then how about this. Will you write something especially for me?” Toni asked, putting a hand to his chest.

            “I’m not a commissioned writer, you know,” Romano mumbled.

            “No, but I think you have so much potential. And if you’re willing to work with me and be more open with your writing, I think you could be truly amazing, _querido._ ”

            Romano opened his mouth, then closed it again, and averted his gaze to the ground. He brought a thumb up to his lips and began to nibble at the nail there. Toni suspected that he had hit a nerve.

            “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Are you passionate about writing?”

            “...I don’t know,” Romano replied, his voice brittle. “I don’t know. I just do it.”

            “Why do you do it?”

            Romano hugged himself gently and leaned against the table, though he still wouldn’t sit down—out of pride or stubbornness or arrogance, Toni had no idea. He said something then, but it was so quiet that Toni couldn’t hear.

            “One more time? I didn’t quite catch that.”

            “I write because it helps me breathe,” he said softly. That was not an answer that Toni had ever heard before, nor one that he had been expecting in the slightest. He blinked, suddenly unsure of how to respond to this young man, whose voice was at once loud and rude and quick, yet soft and fragile and shaky.

            “If I give you a prompt, will you write something for me? It can be anything you want. Just like that first time,” Toni continued, easing his tone.

            “...Maybe.”

            “ _Estupendo.”_ Toni sat up straighter in his seat and leaned forward, closer to Romano, and put his elbow on the table. His movements seemed to turn a switch in Romano’s brain. He blinked and stopped hugging himself and instead crossed his arms, glared down at him, and pursed his lips. “Write about happiness.”

            “Happiness?”

            “Happiness.”

            “What kind of shitty prompt is ‘happiness’?”

            “It gives you freedom.” Toni smiled more widely, ignoring Romano’s dirty little slip of the tongue. “Do whatever you would like with that single concept. Write anything. And come see me tomorrow—I’ll be in my office all afternoon. Just stop by.”

            “Happiness...” Romano repeated again. “Whatever. Maybe I’ll come, maybe I won’t.”

            “Whatever you want, Romano. Whatever helps you breathe.”

            Toni smiled again and tried to put his heart in his voice when he spoke so that Romano could see it, could hear it, could feel it.

            Romano was struck silent again, frozen in place, before he turned and grabbed his bag and hurried from the room. And Toni was left somehow breathless. Somehow exhilarated. Somehow knowing that, regardless of what he had said, Romano would come tomorrow.


	4. 4

**4**

**What Cologne Do You Wear, Signor?**

 

            _There are two young boys sitting in a salon._

_There is a beautiful, large piano that sits by the window, its mahogany shimmering in the light pouring in from the window. There is something melancholy about it, especially as the slow, dramatic tune rises up from its belly. The room is vast and extravagant and there is a view of the water if one were to gaze out from between the curtains. The room is for guests and piano practice exclusively, with glass shelves that hold vases and porcelain figures (their favorite is the dog chasing its tail) and plates from the 17 th century. The older brother is sitting at the window, book in hand, his hair a mess but his eyes bright. He likes the feeling of the sun pouring in upon his tan skin—for some reason, tanner than his younger brother’s, who is sitting at the piano. The music floats up from the keys as the young boy plays, plays, plays, and the melody fills his older brother’s mind until he is saturated with music and the presence of his younger, fairer counterpart. The music is sad, because that’s what the older brother requested. _

_The younger brother is very talented at music, just as he is talented in art and dancing. He plays his music and dances around the room and makes the world blush when he smiles, while his darker brother sits at the window and reads and listens, making notes in the margins with his pen. The entire house, from the edges of the garden to the corners of the kitchen, can hear the music. But that is not why he plays. He doesn’t play for the entire house to hear. He plays only for his older brother to hear, because he knows even without his brother telling him that he enjoys music while he reads and writes. When the piece ends, the older brother looks up from his book and meets his brother’s eyes. He is waiting for a response. A smile. Anything._

_His older brother blinks, gives a sharp nod, and returns to his book. But as the younger brother laughs, he jumps from his seat at the piano and wraps his arms around his neck. Not really surprised (this happens nearly every day, after all), the older brother finally smiles and, as he is now always expected to do, kisses his little brother on the forehead._

_“_ Bellissimo, fratellino,” _he says. “Now stop fooling around and keep practicing!”_

            “D’accordo, fratellone!”

            _Cheeks flushed and giggles incessant, he leaps back to the piano and continues to play. The older brother listens and tries not to cry, though he cannot tell where the tears are coming from. He is too young to make sense of them._  

* * *

 

_...why can’t you be more like your brother...?_

_...what an unsightly boy...!_

            ... _if only you had such talent..._

_..._ un bambino spregevole... _a worthless child..._

           

* * *

 

            _There is a broken vase now. The music has stopped. People rush in. Push him into the corner. He hears people yelling at him and he sees his younger brother beginning to cry at the piano, only to be comforted by a maid. He couldn’t help it, he cries. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t help it. He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s very very sorry. Finally he sees his father pushing through the throng of people that have gathered to clean the shards of the vase and reprimand him, and he feels a rush of relief. Until his father begins screaming, as well._

_“Why can’t you be more like your younger brother?”_

_His father crouches._

_“Look at him, sitting there at the piano like a good, talented boy—and here you are causing problem after problem!”_

_He begins to cry, too._

_And the first slap comes._

* * *

 

Romano sat in his spot, the alcove, the haven that nobody else knew about (or so he told himself), and tried to write about happiness. The sun was only just rising, and he had quietly left the room while Kiku had been sleeping, when the stars had still been glistening hopelessly in the sky. There was dew on the ground and it felt wet when he sat upon it, but he liked the feeling of discomfort. It made everything seem more real somehow. The wetness, the chilliness, the shakiness in his fingers as he held the pen to his black notebook. It helped to reassure him that he was here, on this earth, even though he couldn’t seem to grasp the idea of happiness that his professor had commanded of him. He had not written a single letter in forty-five minutes. Each time an idea came to him he would pause, stare at the page, and then heave a sigh and give up and stare at the tree and wonder about happiness. Its giant trunk, certainly too big even for two Romanos to wrap their arms around.

            _Do I even know what happiness is?_

_There’s gotta be something..._

_Think of something!_

_Bullshit happiness if you want._

_He won’t notice._

_Nobody notices._

But then, an image came to him. A memory, vague and fuzzy. It was an image that sometimes came to him in dreams, though he was very convinced that it wasn’t a dream, but a memory. It was blurry and vivid all at once—though he couldn’t exactly make sense of the details, simply its presence made his heartstrings tie in knots and his stomach turn on itself. Suddenly inspired and ravaged with the spirit of a writer, he began to write, knowing with a sense of reluctance that he would be paying the irritating Spanish writer a visit. But he wouldn’t be writing a jumbled, nonsensical poem this time. This time he wrote a description, as detailed as his vocabulary would allow him, and this time he wrote it in English because for some reason he was feeling the effects of the damp British air on his skin.

            Romano skipped his morning class to finish his writing. He became so engrossed in it that the voices stopped having conversations in his head and he didn’t notice the sun come up and he was unaffected by the few people that stumbled into his haven, saw him sitting in the grass scribbling madly, and retreated. He was in a bubble now, trying to find the words to describe this image, the warmth it gave him. A warmth that he so rarely felt. He wasn’t even sure if it could be called happiness. He hoped Feliciano would never discover this place.

            He skipped lunch, too, though the ringing of the tower’s bells startled him and interrupted his train of thought. There were three pages of his notebook filled now, from top to bottom, with words scratched out and replaced and commas and periods moved because every writer knows that even the slightest punctuation change can redirect a work’s entire meaning. And there was nothing but the description of the image he had in his head. Nothing but that. Spread out elegantly onto the pages. Romano’s writing was the only thing about which he could feel even a semblance of pride. The one thing he didn’t completely and utterly hate about himself. The reason that most of his medication remained untouched—the pills made his brain muddy and incapacitated his ability to write. And, therefore, the reason his mood swings were so dramatic.

            _As long as I can write._

            So he found himself in front of Toni’s slightly ajar door, building up the courage to knock, announce himself, and go inside. But he was frozen now, his backpack hanging off one shoulder as he hugged his notebook to his chest. His heart was pounding. Why was his heart pounding? He was nervous to let anybody see his writing. Nobody had seen his writing since he was eight, when he had written a poem for Feli because he had asked him so earnestly. He was the only person who had ever seen his writing. The only person other than Romano himself and the voices in his head and now, this Spanish professor. He had written academic papers in school, but he didn’t really consider that writing. Not like the prose and poetry and words he put in his notebook.

            Each time he lifted his fist to knock, he would hastily withdraw, for fear that his chest might implode. But after standing there for five minutes he began to get impatient with himself, and with clenched teeth, forced his knuckles to the wood.

            “Come in,” came the milky voice inside. Romano pushed the door open and stepped in, and was at first taken aback by the brightness. Sunlight was pouring in from all sides and, even then, there were three different lamps turned on around the room. As if this Spanish professor was starved of light, like a flower left in the shadows for too long, and was drinking in as much as he could.

            The small office, similar to Romano’s own room, was messy. Papers, books, various writing utensils haphazardly spread around the room dappled in the golden rays. (Though, from his own experience, he could hardly imagine that it was haphazard. Even for the messiest of people there was organization in a strange sense.) The desk was packed with books like sardines, to the point that the wooden walls might have cracked at any moment if Romano didn’t know any better. There were multiple empty mugs with tea and coffee stains on their rims, a typewriter in the corner, beautiful photographs of the Spanish landscape and quotes along the peeling walls. Romano walked in and felt an overwhelming sense of comfort. This was what he would imagine his own office to look like, what he’d imagined his room would look like if Kiku weren’t there to keep him in line.

            There was a window seat on the other side of the room, and it was here that the Spanish professor sat. He had glasses on, which he didn’t normally wear, and his legs were spread out along the seat and crossed. He had taken off his boots and was wiggling his toes in the sun. He wore brown trousers that were rolled up to the center of his calf, a white undershirt, and a red vest. His hair was a complete mess, brown tufts spreading in every direction, and he was concentrating very hard on a book in his dark, calloused hands. His green eyes narrowed, biting his lower lip with his crooked teeth, tapping the edge of the window with a fountain pen. He looked, undeniably, like an academic.

            When Romano walked in, he looked up from his book, and a smile spread across his face.

            “Ah, Romano! I’m so glad you came.” He swung his legs over the window seat until his soles touched the ground, and he put his pen inside of his book and lay it beside him. “ _Por favor,_ have a seat. I apologize for the mess, but I think it’s past hope at this point.”

            His voice was overly merry, his eyes overly bright, his smile overly broad, and it made Romano’s blood boil inexplicably. He considered, as he had done before, ignoring Toni’s attempts at hospitality, just to spite him and his goofy expression, but he decided against it and wordlessly fell into a chair near the window seat. He put his backpack down on the stained carpet.

            “The carpet is not my fault,” Toni laughed. “That was there when I got here.”

            “Yeah, sure.”

            “I truly am happy that you came,” he continued. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, then took off his glasses and put them on the book. Romano furrowed his brow and looked away, unwilling to meet this man’s earnest gaze. “It means a lot.”

            “Whatever...I wrote your stupid prompt,” he snorted.

            “Wonderful! May I see it?”

            His skin was tingling and his stomach was churning in his annoyance, his sudden discomfort. He had felt a sense of belonging in this room, but now that he was sitting down and speaking to this man and about to reveal something that had come from the inner depths of his soul, he wanted more than anything to burrow himself into his bed and never come out. But, he reasoned, he had come all this way. He might as well keep going.

            “You can’t look at any other pages, all right?” he said angrily, opening his notebook and handing it to Toni. “Only those three.”

            “ _Claro. Gracias,”_ Toni smiled. Romano hated when he did that. Like he was trying to make him feel guilty for being so uncooperative.

            _I can’t help it._

_Well, I probably can._

_No I can’t—I can’t._

Still smiling, never moving his eyes from Romano’s face, he took the notebook. Only then did he look away, down at the filled-to-the-brim pages. Romano crossed his arms and watched from the corner of his eyes, sweat gathering on his temples, as Toni’s eyes skimmed the page. Pouring over every word, his rich, thick-lipped smile retreating to a pensive line. Romano couldn’t tell what he was thinking. It was making him anxious. He closed his eyes and decided to concentrate on the sounds and smells of the room. Ruminate in temporary blindness.

            He smelled coffee grinds. Stale black tea. A hint of cinnamon. He heard the disillusioned ticking of the clock and the piercing cries of a bird outside the window, perhaps chilled to the bone in the autumn frost. Could hear his sharp breaths colliding with Toni’s broad ones—breaths that seemed as if they could swallow the world whole.

            _It smells disgusting, sí?_

_No, not particularly._

_Try smelling him. I bet he smells disgusting, too._

_At his dinner party I’ll ask about it._

_What cologne do you wear?_

_¿Cuál colonia usa, Señor Toni?_

Romano tried to keep from laughing at his own musings and bit the insides of his cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked back at Toni. Something in his air had changed. He was leaning back now, had crossed one leg over the other, eyes narrowed, and was picking oddly at the hair of his eyebrows while he read. Romano had never seen anybody pick at the hair of their eyebrows when they were thinking, but he supposed there was a first for everything. His breaths were a bit more shallow. Finally, after an excruciating length of time passed that Romano didn’t bother keeping track of, Toni looked up with a flash in his green irises.

            “Romano,” he said definitively. “Do you mind if I read the first part out loud? I feel as if it’s meant to be read out loud...”

            Taken aback, Romano curled his lip up.

            “I don’t care. Do what you want,” he blurted, even though he didn’t want to hear Toni read his writing. He would rather leave, find a tomato to nibble on, maybe have a glass (or a bottle) of wine, listen to music that made him sad (why do we listen to sad music when we’re sad, that seems strange?). But it was too late now. Toni opened his mouth and began to speak.

            “She has hair that looks like the mahogany of a grand piano in the corner of a dusty room where she used to listen to music with me. It shimmers the same way in the sun. And her eyes are blacker than the blackest hole of the universe, and I lose myself in them. I throw myself into them as she takes me into her arms and holds me like the ocean might hold the moonlight in its waves: we are made for each other, we need each other to survive. I fall into her chest and smell olive oil on her skin, and I hear unfamiliar words on her tongue. I am no longer myself, my soul lost to the beating of her heart.”

            His voice trailed off when he looked up and noticed that tears had welled up in Romano’s eyes. Romano, once he himself was aware of them, began hastily to wipe them with the back of his sleeve and looked down at his muddy boots. He hadn’t meant to lose himself like that in Toni’s voice. He certainly hadn’t meant to let the tears slip. He sat on his hands in embarrassment and bit his lower lip and couldn’t bear to meet the Spanish professor’s eyes as they bore into his forehead.

            “Romano...is everything okay?” he said softly.

            “Yes! Everything is fine!” he spat.

            Toni paused.

            “What is this about? A lover, perhaps?”

            “No, stupid. It’s about my mother.”

            His retort (which he hadn’t meant to sound so rude) was followed by silence. He still couldn’t bring himself to look up. But he could just barely see Toni’s fingers tightening around the pages of the notebook, his knuckles turning ever so paler. Then, Toni’s voice came once more through the silence, but it was softer now. Like cotton falling upon him.

            “ _Que bello,_ ” he said. “So simple, but it has burrowed into my heart.”

            “What is with you? Do you just think every little thing is beautiful? Eh?” Romano suddenly cried, jerking his head up. Toni blinked, startled, but his expression did not wane. He seemed completely unaffected. “I’m starting to get the feeling that even if I had written _shit_ , you still would’ve told me it was beautiful.”

            “That’s not true,” Toni said. “It’s just...you have a way of writing. It flows. It resonates with the soul even if I do not understand it.”

            _Spanish bastard._

_That’s what you are._

But he could not say anything out loud.

            “I think it will help you to have me read your writing,” Toni continued. “Will you write more for me, _querido?”_

            And somehow Romano found himself agreeing, and this time, to a simple prompt of “love.”

_Spanish bastard._

* * *

 

Romano was still not accustomed to the presence of his younger brother, so he found himself startled into speechlessness and a rapid pulse each time he saw him, though it had already been a few days since his arrival (relatively, a few days was not very long compared to six years). Today, Feliciano wanted a tour of campus—see, he was always getting lost, and surely, he thought, his older brother would be able to help him in that regard. After he’d shown up out of thin air in front of Romano’s door, they had been spending an almost absurd amount of time with each other. From the very start, Feli had taken it upon himself to come to Romano’s room every night before he went to bed, and with his contagious smile and outgoing personality he was already on good terms with Kiku. Sometimes, when they had meals together or would stop and chat between classes, the big German bastard was with him, which Romano still resented so much. But they didn’t speak. They tolerated each other’s presence, though it seemed that Ludwig was more indifferent to Romano than anything else.

            So the Vargas brothers (half-brothers) walked across the campus, among the trees and the old, ivy-covered brick buildings and dewy, lush grass. Feli was talking a lot, and Romano was actually surprised at his own patience. Even though it had been so many years, they melted into each other as if they had never been separated.

            “Britain is pretty,” Feli noted. They were at the top of a hill now, far from the center of campus, and air was misty and chilly. He walked with a spring in his step, while his older brother nearly dragged his feet and was loathe to take his hands from the warmth of his pockets. When they were alone, they always spoke in Italian, and sometimes Feli would try to speak in Romano’s Sicilian. The one he’d acquired after he’d moved away for the first time, to live with his mother’s family when he was seven.

            “It’s all right.”

            “You fit in here well, Lovi.”

            Romano shot Feli an angry glare, which was met with a playful laugh, before he looked back down at his boots and the crushed blades of grass beneath them.

            “I mean because it’s so beautiful, of course.”

            “Yeah, well you stick out like a sore thumb.”

            “I do, don’t I? But the people are nice, so I think it’s okay. Everybody is very smart, especially the professors, and the girls are very pretty,” he laughed. “Though the weather can get really grey...”

            “Hey, Feli.”

            “Yes?”

            “Why did you leave Rome? To come here, of all places? You were supposed to go to school in Vienna anyway.”

            Feli had already explained it to him, but he wasn’t sure he could quite believe it. Couldn’t quite believe that Feli had moved from Rome, where his home and his soul and his happiness was, to this isolated and dull college just for his sake. Feliciano didn’t respond right away. In the silence, Romano looked over at him. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was looking up at the sky, a serene look on his face. Romano mused that his own face might look like that when he was asleep, or perhaps even when he was writing. They were so often mistaken as twins.

            “Because I miss you,” he said, eyes still on the sky. Romano stopped, digging his heels into the mud.

            “You left everything, just for me? I don’t believe you.”

            “Why not?” Now a few steps ahead, Feliciano lowered his head and glanced over his shoulder. “Do you not believe that I love you?”

            Romano opened his mouth, but said nothing.

            _Of course I don’t believe that._

_How could I?_

“Papá wasn’t happy, of course,” Feli continued, but his smile never faded. “He threatened to disown me and everything. But I told him that I had already made my decision—that I had already been accepted to attend school here, and there was nothing he could do to stop me from being with you.”

            “He would never disown you,” Romano grumbled.

            “No, you’re right.”

            Neither of them brought up the fact that he had, in fact, already disowned Romano.

            “You shouldn’t have left Rome to come here,” Romano finally said. There were tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t look at Feliciano for too long without feeling the lump swell in his throat and spread like a virus through his limbs. He had never known how to respond to such affection. “You belong there. Or in Vienna. Or anywhere but here.”

            “I thought the same thing when you first left,” Feli said softly.

            “I didn’t leave. They sent me away.”

            “I know.” He sighed. A heavy, trembling sigh that crashed into Romano’s ears like bricks. “I wasn’t kidding, what I said before. I really did cry every night. I was only six when you moved to Sicily, remember? I kept crying until I was sixteen. I couldn’t understand why my brother was gone. I still don’t. And after you went to Spain for boarding school I never even saw you once.”

            “Because that wasn’t where I was meant to be.”

            _That’s not where I was wanted._

“It’s funny,” Feliciano suddenly said with a smile. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and, as they glistened against his skin, the tears in Romano’s own eyes spilled over and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop them. Not with the burden of so many years hanging on his eyelashes. They stood across from one another beneath this grey, heavy sky, crying such different tears. “I haven’t seen you in so long, but I still feel like I know you better than I know myself. I wonder why that is?”

            “It’s just how brothers are,” Romano said.

            _When they cry into their pillows every night._

_In different countries, staring at the same moon._

_You’ll always know each other._

“Come. I want you tell me about Sicily.”

            “You know about Sicily. You’ve been there.”

            “Well I want to hear _you_ talk about it, Lovi! And I don’t actually know that much about your mother’s family—tell me, won’t you tell me, Lovi?”

            _You’ll always know each other._

“Okay. Whatever you want.”

Ti amo, fratellino.

Ti amo, Feliciano.


	5. 5

**5**

**Your Writing Is Dark, Querido**

 

            _Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

            Toni did not sleep that night because he was thinking unrelentingly about Romano’s mother. He was thinking about how he’d written about her, how the words had swum before his eyes. He had never read anything like that. There wasn’t anything particularly stunning about the way he described this woman, or the use of vocabulary or the diction—he was talented, yes, but there was something else. It might have been in the way he had been sitting right there, eyes on the ground, lips tight and brow distorted in wrinkles. It had all come together to create an image, and when Romano had said the words, “It’s my mother,” Toni had been afraid that he was about to burst into tears. Now he stared at the ceiling with those words floating in his mind, his heart eager to read the words that were to come from that dark boy’s mind next. Words about love.

            The next day, just as François was leaving his office after a short coffee break, a short and decisive knock came at Toni’s door. He was at his desk this time, twirling a strand of hair and staring once again at Romano’s poem. In his moments of idleness, his moments of silence, those moments in which the mind of a writer begins to twist and turn and writhe and cave in on itself, he always found himself returning to this poem in a futile attempt to understand it. To work out each word, give it a meaning of its own and put it into orbit with the others. Planets, stars, in a galaxy born of Romano’s shaded thoughts.

            “Come in,” he said, taking his glasses off and placing them next to his coffee-stained mug. The door gingerly opened and Romano took a step inside. Seeing him, with red bags beneath his eyes, a scowl, chapped lips as dry as a desert, disheveled and coarse hair, Toni realized that from one day to the next, this boy could be a different person. Yesterday he had looked much better—not as thin, perhaps, or not quite as melancholy. Toni could admit to himself that he had never been very good at reading people, but he could not even decide what type of person Romano was.

            “Ah, good. You’re here.” Toni adjusted his chair and gestured for Romano to sit with an eager smile on his lips. Romano silently took his seat. “Are you all right, _mi hijo?_ You look very tired.”

            “I’m fine.”

            Romano, very evidently not fine, took out his notebook and turned to one of the pages and handed it to Toni. He leaned forward and looked more closely at Romano’s face. He was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his breathing ragged.

            “Are you sick? Or maybe you are not sleeping well?”

            “I told you I’m fine.” Romano blinked at him, their faces now inches apart, before turning away with a slight pout on those desert lips.

            “All right, if you say so. _Vale_ , did you do the assignment?”

            Romano nodded, and Toni smiled again, even though he knew that Romano wouldn’t see it. He might feel it, Toni mused, if he smiled in just the right way.

            “Let’s take a look then. Another poem! Beautiful.” Toni put his glasses back on (his eyesight wasn’t _terrible_ , but the glasses were helpful and made him feel much more like a professor) and began reading through the poem. Out loud, of course, because poetry was always meant to be read out loud. The poem was in English. He had hoped, for some strange reason, that it would be in Italian, though he couldn’t completely understand Italian.

            “Set me on fire, soulmate.

            Chew me up and spit me out.

            Choke me with hands that hold my heart and squeeze.

            Put your boot against my upturned face,

            Watch it fall,

            And push harder.

            Put your lips to my ear and whisper the words.

            Words of hatred and anguish.

            Words you know I want to hear.

            I give everything I have to you.

            Everything is nothing.

            But nothing is enough to save me.

            Let me sit in the palm of your hand,

            Crying against your fingertips.

            Watch me fall to my knees and beg for your gaze.

            That’s all.

            Your gaze.

            Nothing else.

            Burn me. Burn me.

            Burn me with your gaze.”

            Toni stared at the final period for what seemed an eternity before scanning through the poem once more. The words were harsh and crude, callous and filled to the brim with desolation, but they were written so delicately. As if Romano had been afraid of ripping the page with the tip of his black-inked pen. Finally, he looked back up at Romano, his mouth slightly open, wondering what he could possibly say to this skinny, so oddly small boy about the terrors hidden within this poem. But he was shocked into silence when he saw tears, not dissimilar to yesterday’s, streaming down Romano’s face. Streaming in rivulets. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at the notebook in Toni’s lap with unflinching concentration and was biting his lower lip. His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles were losing their color.

            “Romano...?”

            Hearing his name must have brought him back to reality. He blinked and looked up into Toni’s eager eyes and began desperately wiping the tears with the back of his sleeve. In a haze, Toni reached for a small tissue box he kept on his desk and handed it to Romano, who took it with trembling fingers and blew his running nose. The Spaniard had absolutely no idea what to say. Yesterday, too, Romano had shown signs of distress. But not like this. So he sat in silence and stared at the poem while Romano blew his nose and avoided eye contact. He wished that he could find the courage to say something that might have alleviated the stress, but Toni’s lack of tact when it came to human interactions made that absolutely impossible. The only thing he could do was wallow in this tense atmosphere, berating himself for idleness, watching tears that shimmered with something—innocence? or maybe remorse?—roll down Romano’s gaunt cheeks.

            Until, finally, Romano took a few deep breaths and swallowed. Only then did Toni venture to speak.

            _“Lo siento_ ,” he found himself saying softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

            Romano said nothing. Did nothing. Toni had been expecting a sharp reply, a witty insult, a defense of pride—anything but this heavy silence that weighed down on him like a pile of bricks. Romano might have shaken his head, but it was equally as likely, Toni reasoned, that he had not shaken his head.

            “Is this...truly how you see love?”

            Romano shrugged. At the very least, a sign of life. Toni sighed.

            “It is strange, I will say that,” he continued with a smile. “But it captures well the desperation we sometimes feel in love, _sí?”_

“If you think so,” he mumbled.

            “What inspired this, if I may ask?”

            And Toni was met, yet again, with a silent shrug. Another obstacle set in his path to discovering the secret of Romano’s talent, his inspiration, the cogs that made him work. Yet it made his determination stronger. He had never wanted so badly to discover the inner workings of another person. To shine light upon their darkness and have himself be swallowed by it. Driven by a dark and twisted masochism.

            “Your writing is...how should I say it...dark, _querido_ ,” Toni said. “I am sure you know what I mean. Dark in the way that attracts readers.”

            Romano nodded. His brow had scrunched up again, but he could no longer fool Toni with appearances of indignation. At least, not right now.

            “If you wish, write something else for me. Anything. My recommendation is to practice every day. That is how a writer improves. But, Romano...” Toni’s voice trailed off for a moment, when Romano finally met his eyes. And he saw in them a pain he could never understand. “If this is hard for you, or if you want to stop...or even if you want to talk, you can come to me.”

            “I’m fine. I’ll write your stupid assignments.”

            This response was a call to help. At least, that was how Toni decided to interpret it. It was a hand reaching out from the darkness of Lovino Vargas saying, help me be the writer I know I can be. Help bring me back out into the light of creativity and artistic intuition. Toni reached forward and grabbed that hand, responded to that call to help, as intensely as he could.

            “ _Vale._ Now go get some sleep—something to get that nasty look from your eyes.”

            Toni smiled and handed Romano the notebook but, despite his inclinations, did not touch him. Without a word Romano stuffed his notebook into his bag and was out of the room in mere seconds, and only after he’d gone did Toni realize that there were goosebumps covering every inch of his bronzed skin.

            Toni stayed late at his office that evening, staring with blurry eyes at the poem Romano had given him—the one from the first day of class. Pouring, as he always did, over every single word. But now he was thinking of Romano’s new poem, as well. His twisted perspective of love and the claws with which it dragged its victims to the depths of hell. He was thinking of Romano’s mother, who he now felt a strange desire to meet. If only from his dramatic and beautiful description of her in the pages of his notebook.

            Romano hadn’t been in class that evening, which struck Toni as curious because he had willingly come to his office outside of class hours. So why, he wondered, hadn’t he shown up for class? Something came up, surely, that prevented him from being able to make it. An emergency, or a sudden illness. Or perhaps the common habits of youth—particularly of college students—had overcome him and he had decided, against his better judgment, to just skip class for no real reason at all. Still, Toni was disappointed. So he sat staring at Romano’s handwriting and thinking about his writing and the way the tears had looked sliding down his skin. A student had approached Toni after class asking if she might have him look over some of her writing and offer advice, and he had accepted with less enthusiasm than he would expect even from himself. His mind had been elsewhere.

            Now here he sat. In his office, watching the words swimming and hearing the distant ticking of the clock. It was approaching midnight. He decided, with an uncharacteristic huff and puff, that it was time to go to sleep. Tomorrow, surely, was another day of discovery. Of pulling Romano from his shell and showing the world the beautiful writer within. Another day of figuring out just who this young man was.

           

* * *

 

            Toni was visited in his office the next day not by Romano, but by François and Gilbert. They invaded like an army, cups of coffee in hand and not looking at all like academic professors with published work who taught at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. It happened while he was asleep, taking a short siesta at the window. Gilbert threw the door open and strolled in, François at his heels wearing an amused and confident smile on his wry lips. Toni blinked his eyes, coming face to face with the blurry silhouettes of his friends, completely disoriented.

            “Good morning, new friend!” Gilbert cried. Before Toni could even move, he moved to the window and threw the shades open, forcing bright light onto him.

            “Ai!” Toni flinched and covered his eyes, curling into himself.

            “You know it’s not morning, _oui?”_ François chuckled.

            “It’s all the same,” Gilbert said with a flick of his wrist. “Either way, time to wake up!”

            “ _Hola_ ,” Toni mumbled, forcing himself to sit up. “Come inside, I suppose.”

            “You Spaniards, always sleeping,” Gilbert sighed. He took a seat in Toni’s swiveling chair and propped his feet up on the desk. If Toni had been any different than he was, he would have been irritated. But he couldn’t convince himself to care, and instead rubbed his eyes and smiled. “In Deutschland, sleep is for the weak!”

            “I find that hard to believe,” François said. Then he strode over and offered Toni, yawning and stretching his arms, a cup of coffee.

            “Ah, _muchas gracias_ , you are an angel.”

            “So I’ve heard.” He leaned against the wall and took a sip of his coffee. Café au lait, his favorite, Toni had quickly learned. He himself preferred Americano, and though he wasn’t sure what Gilbert’s preference was, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was, in fact, alcohol. “Gilbert wants to go on a trip to London this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

            “A trip to London sounds fantastic,” Toni said. His relief came out more evident in his heavy voice than he’d anticipated. Something about the school’s campus was...suffocating. He wanted to explore it, learn its secrets and run his hands along its every curve and find the inspiration within its gardens and its ivy-covered brick buildings, but there was something in the air today. He wanted to leave.

            “We catch the 4 pm train!” Gilbert announced. Toni began to laugh, and Gilbert threw him a wink.

            When they were sitting in an English pub that evening, buying each other rounds and eating kidney pie, Toni decided that he was getting impatient. So he took a risk, and after a swig of his mug of ale, turned to Gilbert and François.

            “Oi, I have a question for you two,” he said. They looked over at him, drinking, eyes shimmering with anticipation. “Do either of you know a student named Vargas?”

            “Vargas...Spanish?” François asked.

            “Italian.”

            “Ah!” Gilbert snapped his fingers, staring up at the ceiling as if a divine epiphany had descended him from the old, rickety scaffolds of this pub. “I have heard that name. Roderich has him in class.”

            “Roderich?”

            “Roderich Edelstein, in the music department,” François said with a provocative raise of his eyebrow. “A brilliant musician from Austria. Some call him the gem of the school. He once performed in concert halls, _mais maintenant_ he teaches. His career could have continued—”

            “But he got into an accident and hurt his wrist, and that was that,” Gilbert finished. His voice didn’t sound nearly as sad, nearly as tragic, as Toni might have wished (for dramatic effect). He was to learn later that Gilbert and Roderich were in fact very good friends. Or, at least, Gilbert seemed to think so.

            _“Que coño,”_ he murmured.

            “Eh, he’s okay. He has his crazy collection of pianos and prodigy students to make him happy.” Gilbert shrugged and chugged the rest of his drink. “Anyway, he was talking about a student named Vargas in his performance class. Said he was an amazing performer.”

            “Romano? _¿En serio?”_

“Romano?”

            “Ah, I mean Lovino.”

            “Mm, that’s not it either,” Gilbert said, knitting his brow. Toni just blinked at him. “What was his name...Felix? Frank? Something like that.”

            “Those don’t sound like Italian names,” François laughed.

            “Feliciano! That’s it!”

            “Feliciano Vargas? But his name is Lovino.”

            “A relative, perhaps? Or just a coincidence?” François asked.

            “Perhaps...”

            “Whatever. All I know is that Roderich is completely taken with him.”

            “Ah, Feliciano Vargas,” François said. “ _Oui_ , I know that name as well. He is a student from Rome. He stood out.”

            “Well then they are certainly not the same. Romano is from Sicily.”

            “We were surprised to receive Feliciano’s application, to be honest,” François continued. Toni recalled that, along with his job as a linguistics professor, François was a member of the board of admissions and therefore saw every application. “The boy had already been accepted at an extremely prestigious art school in Vienna. But he decided to come here instead.”

            “Hmm.” Toni found this all to be very intriguing and absolutely refused to believe that it was a coincidence. “You don’t know why?”

            “Well, he does have a brother here.”

            They all paused and let that information sink in.

            “So Feliciano and Lovino are brothers,” Toni said.

            “Not quite. They are half-brothers. From what I could tell, at least. Same father.” François’s cheeks were now flushed from the alcohol, his ears red and his smile incessant. “Though I will say this: Feliciano Vargas is undeniably talented. In almost everything.”

            “Everything?”

            “Music, art, history...”

            “Roderich says he’s a very charming boy. Always smiling!”

            “A Renaissance man if there ever was one.”

            They proceeded to buy another round and get drunk, but Toni couldn’t stop wondering why Feliciano Vargas, who had supposedly been accepted at one of the best art schools in the world, had decided to transfer to his brother’s school instead. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that this was significant somehow. He wanted to meet Feliciano. This was his last thought before Gilbert got onto the table, pulling his friends up with him, and they danced until they were kicked out and somehow made their way back to campus.


	6. 6

**6**

**Do You Wax Your Eyebrows, Signor?**

 

            _There are two boys sleeping in a bed._

_The bed is very large, with silken sheets and feathery pillows all dotted with baby blue sheen. It is the middle of the night, and to these little half-brothers, the entire world is asleep. They can hear not a single human sound. They were tucked in two hours ago, at seven o’clock sharp, and the hour is now nine. Though the exact time eludes these little boys. The younger brother likes to wake up to the sunlight, so the curtains are always drawn and light from the stars and moon pours in through the darkness. The older brother, though the light makes it difficult for him to sleep, dares not object to the wishes of his younger brother. There is a soft lullaby playing from a music box in the corner. It is just loud enough that, drifting off drowsily into sleep, the two brothers dream of it. It is a Spanish lullaby. One that they do not know the name of because nobody seems willing to tell them._

_The younger brother is asleep. He has been asleep for a while now. His little limbs are outstretched on the bed and his little breaths collide with the gentle melody of the music box. But the older brother, the darker brother, is awake. He cannot sleep—not while the tears flow from his raw eyes and the skin of his face aches. He lifts his delicate fingers to the tender flesh of his cheek and feels a sting as soon as they make contact. He grits his teeth and curls up under the covers, letting the tears squeeze. He is in immense pain. He is always in immense pain. Since the day his father began cornering him, he has been in immense pain. But he hides it during the day. He does not want to make his younger brother cry, not for any reason at all. His hands hurt, as well, from where the piano teacher smacked him with the ruler. He messed up again, even though he practices. (Not as much as his brother, but he practices.) Sometimes his muscles move on their own and he cannot help but make mistakes—just like with his dancing and art lessons—and take the smacks on his palms. Though he’s gotten very good at holding in his wails. He doesn’t want his brother to hear._

_His brother does not get slapped. Not by the piano teacher, not by the maids. Not by their father. So he sleeps comfortably. And his muscles don’t move in the strange way that his older brother’s do, in ways he cannot control._

_The older brother tries not to shake the bed with his sobs. When he closes his eyes he sees red, so he keeps them open, and the tears continue to stream. He holds the blanket tightly to his chest and listens to the music of the music box. The lullaby. He recalls this lullaby from somewhere—recalls hearing it in a place of warmth and happiness. He remembers a woman with dark, dark hair, dark skin like his, singing it for him. The memory makes him smile. But even the smile hurts, and it becomes a pained grimace._

_He stops smiling when his brother is not around._

_Hot and uncomfortable and in pain beneath the covers, the older brother silently slips out. The ground is cold beneath his feet. He doesn’t want to put on his slippers. He looks at his younger brother for a few moments, and then leaves the room, because he can cry safely when he is alone. The house, intense and overwhelming in its grandiosity, is dark and frightening for him. He hugs himself as he walks and the sound of the music and his brother’s breathing begins to fade. He moves down the hallway, trying to find a good spot, when he hears voices. He freezes. Two men are speaking to each other. Both voices he recognizes. One makes him flinch involuntarily. His arms begin to move on their own for a few moments, of their own will. He cannot control it. Then they are still again and he moves toward the voices. Down the stairs and toward the reading room._

_The older brother peers around the corner. He sees two men sitting near the fireplace, drinking tea and eating cookies. They are his father and his father’s father—his grandfather, a man who is so Italian that he alone might have contained the souls of every Italian that had ever lived. That is the joke between the two brothers. His father is not like his grandfather. Nonno has softer eyes and he is smiling much more often. Just like his younger brother._

_“Take him to a doctor,” Nonno says. He knows immediately that they are talking about him. They would not talk about his brother like this._

_“No, no, there is no need. He just needs to toughen up.”_

_“You are wrong. This is a medical condition.”_

_“A medical condition, eh? He cannot do anything—not a thing! It is not a medical condition. Just look at Feliciano. What the boy needs is discipline, and...”_

_“Let me care for him.”_

_“No, you are too soft. And you will fill his head with nonsense.”_

_“Your ways are not right. You will ruin him.”_

_“He is_ my _son. I will do with him what I please.”_

_The older brother crouches and hugs his knees to his chest and buries his face so that his sobs are muffled. He does not want to hear the rest of the conversation, but he finds that he cannot move._

* * *

 

_...why can’t you be more like your brother...?_

_...what an unsightly boy...!_

            ... _if only you had such talent..._

_..._ un bambino spregevole... _a worthless child..._

* * *

 

_The older brother has cried himself dry. After who-knows-how-long passes, he hears footsteps, but he cannot move._

_“Ah. You were here the whole time, were you?”_

_He is ready to be slapped again. He braces himself._

_But he instead feels a pair of strong, warm arms scoop him up gently. He feels as if he is being rocked, warmth spreading through his body. He opens his eyes to see his grandfather smiling down at him._

_“Come, piccolo. Look at you. Your eyes are puffy and red—and you have a terrible bruise.” Nonno carries him back to his rocking chair and holds him more tightly in his arms. His father, it seems, has left. “Nothing a good story can’t fix, eh?”_

_The young child cannot say anything, but he likes being held. He curls against Nonno’s chest. Surprisingly sturdy for his age._

_“What story do you want to hear? About princes like you? Princesses? Far off lands?”_

_The boy wants to hear about his mother, and he tells Nonno this._

_Nonno tells him stories about his mother, and somehow the bruises on his body and the pain in his soul become easier to bear._

_Ti amo molto, piccolo._

_Ti amo molto, Nonno._

* * *

 

Romano wished that he had a motorbike to ride. Even a car would do, but his Italian blood desired so desperately a motorbike. He would climb on, without a helmet so he could feel the wind whipping mercilessly against his face, and ride until it was out of fuel and he found himself in a completely unfamiliar land. He could get lost with his motorbike, so lost that he couldn’t contact anyone and nobody could contact him and he would be all alone in the middle of the desert. Then he wouldn’t have to write this prompt for his smiling professor. He wouldn’t have to sit and bear seeing the smile on Feliciano’s face. (Seeing his smile was strange. It made Romano want to cry, made the envious, hateful creature within him come to life. And yet he wanted nothing more than to see it. So now that he was faced with it so often, he wasn’t entirely sure what to feel.) He wouldn’t have to deal with being surrounded by so many people—smarter, stronger, more beautiful—in this dark and dismal British land. He felt, somehow, that being completely and utterly alone would help him feel less completely and utterly alone.

            And still he wrote.

            It would have been just as easy for him to stop writing. To throw his notebook over the ledge of this lush alcove, watch as it fell to the road and was inevitably squashed by a passing car (or motorbike). To shove his pen down his throat and taste the ink, never again to touch paper and bring his thoughts to an indescribable physical reality. And still he wrote.

            _Keep writing._

_No, stop. It’s useless._

_Keep writing._

_I said stop!_

Romano put his notebook down on the grass beneath the tree for a few moments and brought his hands to his head. He rubbed his temples harshly, as if he were trying to rub the dangerous and evil thoughts from his mind. His fingers were too warm. He couldn’t feel anything. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes so tightly that he saw colors flashing behind his eyelids. He grabbed his hair, as if to rip it from his scalp, and then banged the heels of his palms against his temples. The voices were loud and irritating today. Worse than most days. He banged until he was dizzy and seeing red, and then he brought his hands back to his lap and breathed. He was glad that there weren’t many people who came to this spot, especially on Sundays.

            When the physical pain subsided and his heartbeat steadied, he continued to write. He ignored the voice in his head that kept screaming, shrieking, wailing at him not to—there’s no point, it’s useless, _you’re_ useless, worthless, stop it, stop it, stop it—and wrote everything that he could write. This time his writing was different than before. It was spurred on, made more beautiful, by the knowledge that there was somebody waiting eagerly to read it. He put, perhaps subconsciously, more effort into making his handwriting nice and legible. He couldn’t stop imagining Toni, sitting in his chair, his emerald eyes reading _his_ writing. His thick, dark lips smiling at _his_ writing. His pink tongue clicking praise for _his_ writing.

            Romano had been thinking about Toni a lot more lately.

            He had never met anybody who irritated him so much.

            (Except perhaps that German that Feli was always hanging around with. Even Kiku’s American friend was preferable.)

            And yet, when it was dark and quiet and Romano was feeling the crippling loneliness that plagued his entire body, his entire soul, his entire mind, his thoughts wandered to Toni. To his fingers when they clasped his notebook. To his chest when he breathed in, breathed out. To the way he had been reading at his windowsill, bare feet and rolled up pants and disheveled hair left to bathe in the sun.

            _But he’s such a bastard._

_He thinks he can just waltz into my life?_

_Thinks he can win me over by telling me I write well?_

_Eh?_

_Damn him. Damn him straight to hell._

Romano wondered if that voice were talking about Toni or about himself.

            _I know what happens if I get attached, don’t I?_

_They leave me._

_They ALL LEAVE me._

_(Feliciano will leave me, too. You’ll see.)_

_I think that Spanish bastard actually cares about me?_

_I think he gives a single fuck about me?_

_Nobody gives a single fuck about me._

_NOBODY CARES._

Romano’s hand began to shake as he tried to put the words down on the paper. The words on the paper for Toni to read. The ink became smeared with tears.

            _But he likes my writing._

_He thinks it’s dark._

_He likes your writing, Lovino._

_He loves it._

_He asks you to write for him._

Romano continued to write, biting his lower lip and now thinking overwhelmingly of Toni and the fact that he enjoyed to read his writing.

            He knocked on Toni’s door the next day and didn’t wait for an answer before he entered.

            “ _Hola_ , _mi hijo_. What treats do you have for me today?” Toni greeted, taking his glasses off. He had been reading from a pile of papers on his desk. Essays to grade, Romano assumed. He hadn’t submitted his yet.

            “Don’t ask me, just read it yourself,” he heard himself say harshly. He took his seat on the chair and took his notebook out of his bag and handed it to Toni. While he tried to ignore the beaming, overbearingly bright smile he was flashing him. His teeth were still crooked. Romano’s weren’t perfect, either, but they certainly weren’t as crooked as this old man’s.

            “ _Vale._ Let’s see.”

            He put his glasses back on and began to read. And as the minute dragged on, he began to do that strange thing again. Playing with the hair of his eyebrows, pulling and pushing them while he read. Perhaps as a strange habit, a strange ritual to induce creative thought in his tired, siesta-drawn brain.

            _I wonder, does he get his eyebrows threaded?_

_Maybe waxed._

_They look very nice._

_I’ll have to ask him at that dinner party._

_Do you wax your eyebrows?_

_¿Depila las cejas, Señor Toni?_

            He had to hold in his laughter while his gaze remained, unflinchingly, on Toni’s eyebrows. All while his fingers threaded through them. They were thick and dark, and while they were shapely, the hair seemed to move in all different directions. Romano would not have been surprised if he used gel to make them behave. He wanted to reach out and touch them. But he wouldn’t dare.

            The prompt had been “friendship” this time. So, of course, Romano had written about his brother—the only true friend he had ever had. Toni read through it, the entire thing, silently. Then, he took off his glasses and closed the notebook.

            “Who is this about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

            “My brother.”

            “Feliciano, yes?”

            Romano blinked, completely taken aback.

            “H...How in hell did you know that? I didn’t write his name anywhere.”

            “Ah, apologies. I only recently heard that he attended school here,” Toni said, clearly flustered. He smiled an awkward smile that made Romano only more uncomfortable. “His name...is Feliciano, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And this is about him?”

            “...Yeah.”

            Romano suddenly regretted writing about Feliciano. He had written under the pretense that Toni wouldn’t know the subject of his emotional and intense piece of prose, and now an odd embarrassment rooted itself beneath his clammy skin.

            “You must love him a lot. _Es claro.”_

Romano gritted his teeth and looked away. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. He didn’t want to talk about Feliciano.

            “Well, he is lucky to have a brother like you, _sí?”_

That comment, yet again, took Romano off-guard. He looked up, startled, and met Toni’s gaze. Always too earnest, too honest, too...completely oblivious. He wanted to leave. The voices were starting up and his chest felt tight. His brain was buzzing and his skin felt hot and he needed to scream. Needed to run away.

            “You still look tired, _querido. Por favor_ , get some sleep.” Toni, still as tactless as ever, gave Romano his notebook and looked at him very seriously.

            “Yeah, okay, whatever. I’m leaving now.”

            He whisked the book from Toni’s hand and flew out of the room before Toni could even mutter a hasty, Spanish farewell.

* * *

 

            Romano sat on his bed, across from Feliciano. They were both sitting cross-legged, an ashtray and an empty bottle of wine between them while _Tosca_ blasted through the speakers. The window was slightly open, and the smoke alarm (installed in every room for safety reasons) was covered up with a plastic bag and a hanger, against Feli’s objections. He was staring, wide-eyed and with trembling lips, at his older brother—who was vehemently avoiding his gaze. He had a cigarette in his lips and fell into a fit of coughing, covering his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were drowsy and his thoughts were muddled, his vision blurry. Romano was, in fact, very drunk, and he had already gone through half a pack of cigarettes in an hour.

            Romano didn’t tend to smoke very much. It was a habit he had picked up in Granada, in his boarding school years, with other fifteen year-old kids who had nothing better to do. Back then, he had never enjoyed it immensely, and only did it as a social endeavor. But then, once the voices had grown louder and his fits and tempers had begun to flare up, the significance of smoking cigarettes changed for him. Now, he did not smoke at all—except for the moments in which he needed to forget everything. In which he needed to silence the voices and lose himself in desperation and guilt and longing for something he couldn’t name. During these fits, he would sit and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes, unhaltingly. One after the other.

            He had called Feliciano, begging him to bring him a bottle of Marsala wine (he needed the taste of Sicily on his tongue) from an Italian wine store in town, his voice choked in tears. Feliciano, without question, had arrived at Romano’s door exactly two hours later with a bottle of Marsala, a box of Italian chocolates, and an old CD filled with Puccini. Romano hadn’t eaten any of the chocolate, telling Feli he could eat it all. He had poured a glass of wine for Feli, and then proceeded to drink the rest straight from the bottle in between his cigarettes. The ashtray was nearly filled.

            “Lovi...”

            Romano let out a hiccup and brought the cigarette to his lips. He was staring outside of the window. He was trying to calculate, with made up numbers, where he would land if he jumped out of the window and there was no wind. He had never been good at math, though.

            “Lovi, you are too drunk.”

            “Eh?” He crushed his cigarette on the ashtray and took the next one from the pack. Camel Blue. Popular in England. “I’m not too anything.”

            He knew he was drunk, but he didn’t mind. In fact, it was what he wanted, because it meant that the voices constantly bombarding him in his head would go away.

            “You need to take better care of yourself,” Feli continued. Romano offered him a cigarette, which he refused with a forlorn glint in his eyes. His expression was terribly sad. “Oh, Lovi.”

            “I’m...ahem...I’m fine.”

            Feliciano quietly stood from the table and walked over to Romano’s desk. Romano watched him, his eyes following his brother’s every move, while the smoke poured from his chapped lips. Feli began sorting through his books, his little decorations. A few photographs he had taken in Spain, in Sicily, of his mother’s relatives who had taken him in. There were many photographs of Feliciano, but Romano found that he didn’t care that Feliciano saw them. Then, head hanging low, Feliciano grabbed an orange vial from the top of the desk. It was completely filled with white tablets.

            “Lovi,” he murmured again. Romano looked away with a click of his tongue and aggressively sucked on his cigarette. He didn’t want to see the tears streaming down his brother’s cheeks, as blurry as they were. “You haven’t taken a single one.”

            “Whatuvit, eh?” He began coughing again. “They destroy your mind, they do!”

            “No they don’t...You sound like a crazy old man.”

            “ _They do!”_

“When did you start taking them?”

            “Eh?”

            “When? How old were you?”

            “Who gives a fuck?” Romano put his hand to his aching head and wiped the strands of hair sticking to his sweaty skin.

            “Won’t you answer me, Lovi?”

            “Fourteen maybe?”

            “You never take them, do you?”

            “They destroy your mind, they do! I...I can’t...y’know...I can’t write with medi—medicine in my brrraaain.”

            “ _Mio povero fratello,”_ Feliciano said softly. He walked back to the bed and, though his skin was numb and he couldn’t feel it, began to wipe the tears from Romano’s cheeks. Then he kissed his forehead and wrapped his arms gently around him, even as he continued to smoke.

            “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

            Romano closed his eyes and cried and smoked and let his brother hold him.

            _No, no, stop it._

_STOP IT, FELICIANO._

_IT’S MY FAULT._

_You’re my little brother._

_My precious little brother._

_My best friend._

_I’m the one that wasn’t there for_ you.

            _Stop this please._

            “Ti amo, Lovino.”

            He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take this emptiness.


	7. 7

**7**

**Take A Siesta, Querido**

            _Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

 

* * *

 

            It was Wednesday now. So Toni had to remind himself when he realized that he was dozing, his hand on a cup of tea and his glasses crooked on his nose. It wasn’t that he was sleepy; he had already taken his afternoon siesta, and had slept relatively well the night before. But his focus was evading him. Any semblance of concentration was slipping through the cracks of his mind. His writer’s block was persisting, to the point that he could hardly write comments on his students’ essays. To the point that he missed the feeling of carpal tunnel running through his wrist, and he missed the feeling of hunger because he was so caught up in his writing that he did not eat. He missed the bursts of inspirations that made his eyes light up, made it impossible for him to do anything but write. Yet it seemed that he could do everything but write at that particular moment. And, of course, in this moment of frustration and despair—the type of despair that only a writer who can’t write feels—his thoughts flitted to the one thing that seemed to always be hiding in the background.

            Lovino Vargas.

            Toni had come to the conclusion, after reading more of Romano’s practically illegible writing and seeing him in class and hearing his hoarse voice, that there was something else that was attracting him to this student. This went further than a simple attraction to the way that he wrote—further than an attraction to the way that he was a student, and Toni his professor. But, oddly enough, Toni could not pinpoint it. He simply could not determine what it was that he felt about Romano. He was moody and almost always angry and he was very rude and, even though Toni had to admit that he did not know Romano very well outside of their writing sessions and his occasional presence in class, he seemed to bear a particular resentment toward Toni himself. As if the mere look of him made poor Romano angry.

            There had to be something behind that anger. Something behind those sometime crystalline green, sometimes dull amber eyes. Something behind the haunting elegies and laments and eulogies that he wrote with such fervor and yet such simplicity. He was not a flowery, overdramatic writer. He was elegant and concise and frustratingly beautiful in his syntax.

            Sometimes, Toni looked at him and felt an overpowering desire to protect. An overpowering desire to take Romano into his arms and tell him that, yes, I enjoy your writing very much, please write more for me.

            But he wasn’t sure what that desire meant.

            Toni took off his glasses and rubbed his temples to rid himself of these complicated thoughts. Thinking like this was never good for his head. He needed to relax. Just as he was thinking that, he heard a knock on his door. He had heard that characteristic knock enough times by now to know that it was Romano. He didn’t bother telling him to come in because he had realized that Romano tended to do what he wanted regardless of whether he had permission. And, as expected, he opened the door in the midst of the silence and walked inside.

            And he looked terrible.

            “Ay, Romano, _¿qué es esto?”_ Toni said, sitting up straighter in his seat.

            His back was slouched, his feet hardly lifting from the ground when he walked. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, his face gaunt and pale, his eyes completely devoid of shimmer and color. Even as he grasped the strap of his backpack, Toni could see his fingers shaking. Could see every limb of his body trembling. Without an answer, Romano fell down into his usual chair and took out his notebook and thrust it toward Toni.

            “Read it,” he said. His voice was hoarse and quiet. It reminded Toni of his great-grandfather, notorious for chain-smoking even into his 80s. “Just read the whole damn thing, I don’t care.” Romano paused, and then brought his mouth to his sleeve and began to cough. He looked as if he had gone weeks and weeks without sleep. As he held out the notebook, Toni saw it shaking.

            “Romano...”

            “Take it already, Spanish bastard,” he spat. Toni was taken aback. Romano had let things slip before, but usually by accident and in a tone of hasty thoughtlessness. This was different. He had said the words with clear, deliberate disdain hanging from his dry tongue and a look of utter contempt on his face. “Take it!”

            Not sure what else he could do (he was never one to enforce his power as an authority, especially to someone as lost as Romano), Toni gently took the notebook. As soon as he did, Romano drew back his hand and ran it through his lustless hair.

            “Are you okay, _hijo?_ You look—”

            “I didn’t come here for you to tell me that I look like _shit_ , all right?” he interrupted, his r’s rolling like bricks down a mountain from his tongue. He seemed to be speaking with difficulty. He certainly wasn’t drunk. Toni knew a drunk when he saw one. But he was troubled. Terribly troubled. “I came here so you could read my notebook, like you always do.”

            “ _Pero_ —”

            “I want you to read it!” Romano was practically screaming now, hugging himself and swaying slightly in his chair.

            “That’s it.” Toni closed the notebook, put it on his desk, and stood up. Romano looked up at him with wide, almost frightened eyes.

            “What are you—?”

            “How many times have I told you to get some sleep? You haven’t been listening to me, Romano, _lo veo.”_ Toni crossed his arms and gave as stern an expression as he could. He felt a determination, deep inside him, staring at this desperate, exhausted, lost, empty child before him. A child silently crying out for his help.

            “And since you haven’t been doing it yourself, I will have to enforce it.” Toni grabbed Romano by the arm and pulled him up from his seat, and realized that this was the first time he had touched him. His arm was thin and frail and he was afraid for a moment that he might break it in his fingers. Romano was struck speechless, mouth agape.

            Toni gestured with a nod toward his windowsill, covered in papers and books.

            _“Ven._ You are going to sleep right here.”

            “WHAT?!”

            “Come. Take a siesta, _querido_. Even if it’s just for a while. You need sleep.”

            “I don’t want to sleep in your office, bastard!”

            “I don’t care,” Toni said. “ _Ven. Ahora.”_

Romano’s resistance was minimal as Toni dragged him to the windowsill. Still holding his arm with one hand, he used the other to push everything on the bench to the floor, without regard for what it might have been. Romano was trying to say something, his mouth open and stutters erupting from it, but it seemed he couldn’t formulate even a single word.

            “There. Lie down. I have a blanket, for emergencies like this,” Toni ordered.

            “Th-this is illegal!”

            “Fine, call the police if you want,” Toni shrugged with a triumphant smile. Romano blinked, staring at him for a few cringe-worthy moments, and then finally clambered up onto the windowsill. “Take off your shoes.”

            As Romano slid off his boots, Toni reached into his completely disheveled cupboard and pulled out a blanket. It was large and thick and embroidered by hand from Granada. Without hesitating, he spread it out over Romano’s body, and felt a wave of relief when Romano grabbed it and pulled it up to his neck.

            “Now, do you want me to open the blinds and let the sun in, or do you prefer darkness for your siestas?”

            “Darkness,” Romano grumbled, practically inaudible.

            “ _Vale_. I am going to sit and read through the notebook as you asked—but you will sleep, _sí?_ I can’t stand to look at you like that anymore.”

            “Whatever,” Romano sighed. “Creepy old man.”

            He turned toward the window, so that his back was to Toni. As reluctant as he had seemed, he looked very in place at the windowsill. Like a traveler falling upon a bed after months of walking through the desert. Toni sat on his bed and looked at him for a few moments. Then he turned back to his desk, where the black notebook lay. About a minute later, when he glanced back at Romano, it was clear that he was asleep, his body rising and falling heavily with his breaths. Toni smiled to himself and then looked away. Back to the notebook.

            He decided not to read through all of it, as Romano claimed that he could, because of his belief that Romano was not in his right state of mind. Surely when he was awake and put together he would object to letting Toni read all of it. So he read only the most recent entry. Toni had not given him a specific prompt this time, so Romano had written about a music box. A small music box given to him (or whomever the narrator happened to be in this excerpt) by his mother. It contained a Spanish lullaby that led him to his magical, fantastical dreams every night. Toni read it and wished that he could hear the melody, for he so loved Spanish lullabies.

            After about an hour, he looked back at Romano. He had not moved at all in his sleep, still facing the window and hands still clawed around the blanket. He was curled up almost into a ball. Toni couldn’t see his face, but he could hear soft murmurs. Romano was talking in his sleep, it seemed.

            Romano woke up of his own accord forty-five minutes after that, with drool and markings on the right side of his face. He was terribly angry. But, as Toni had hoped, he was much more lively and had more color in his face and eyes. Toni stayed silent and smiling as Romano put on his shoes, whisked his notebook away, and left the office, saying, “Don’t you dare do that again, Spanish bastard! Or I’ll really call the police!”

            But, Toni had to admit, he was very pleased with himself.  

           

* * *

 

            Toni slung his bag over his shoulder, put on his jacket, and popped a lemon drop into his mouth. In any other city, it might have been dangerous to walk alone at night from one’s office to one’s house—but not here. Toni had walked back at night more times than he could count already, and felt a relative safety within the boundaries of this extensive campus. He walked outside without a thought for it, watching the stars dancing above him. He let his mind wander and listened to the sounds of the night world. Bugs chirping, roaming in their last few weeks of freedom before the cold. Leaves, now fragile and eager to fall, rustling in the light breeze. He loved the feeling of the wind in his unkempt hair. There was almost nobody in sight. The college was unique in that way; the students seemed rather diligent about their studies, and were hardly to be seen outside past midnight.

            He decided, even in this intense darkness, to take a path that he had never taken before, inspired again by President Kirkland’s words: _“Take a break from the writing, and put some time into getting to know the place. That’s my advice, anyway.”_ He knew that he still had not seen the campus in its entirety, so he found himself turning down this cobblestone path that he had seen before but never walked. He had a piano melody that he had heard within the past week (he couldn’t remember where or when) playing in his head, so he hummed gently to himself. He tried not to step on any leaves. Suddenly, without having realized where he’d been walking—that was the point, after all—he found himself at the bottom of a stairwell twisting upward. It was made of stone and embedded into a large building that he recognized as one of the university’s social sciences buildings. The staircase was dark and there was water dripping down onto each stone step, but he walked up without much regard for that.

            At a twist in the stairwell, there was a small balcony. He paused before continuing to look out and felt at peace, knowing that he was looking out across the campus, even though it was too dark to truly see it. That was a strange sensation. Thinking something beautiful that he couldn’t even see.

            Toni kept going up the stairs until he emerged into a large, grassy area with a tree in the center and a cobblestone path tracing its edges. He couldn’t believe that a place like this existed, and was so easy to access. He felt as if there should have been a gate or a tree or _something_ to block the stairwell, for this place seemed too magical to be real. He stopped and caught his breath and looked around, letting his eyes become adjusted so that he could properly see it. Though, he noted, he would have to come back during the daylight. But Toni could attest to the fact that he hardly ever remembered these mental notes unless he wrote them down, but he thought that pulling out his notebook might ruin the moment.

            Before Toni could take another step, he heard a soft voice murmuring, and froze on the spot. It was too quiet (and perhaps in a different language?) for him to understand what it was saying. It sounded like some sort of conversation, though he was very certain that there was only one voice. He held his breath again and clutched the strap of his bag more tightly. Hushed tones, whispers, oddly urgent musings rose up into the night sky and blocked out the stars in their desperation. Toni’s eyes once again scanned the alcove, wondering how he could have missed an entire person.

            And then he saw the person who was speaking. On Toni’s right, on the very edge of the alcove, was a long ledge. Another balcony, of sorts. It was higher than the first one and much, much wider, spanning the entire length of the alcove. The railing was made of a thick slab of stone, thick enough that the person speaking was walking on top of it. Moving as if he were on a tightrope—one foot, then the other, then the other. Arms outstretched, gaze locked firmly on his feet. His lips moved quickly and desperately as the raspy words escaped them. Every few steps he would seem to lose his balance, but his murmurs would stop, and he would find it again and keep walking and keep mumbling.

            It was Lovino Vargas.

            Toni’s first instinct was to jump forward and scream his name, Romano, come down from there, that’s dangerous! but then he worried that it would startle him, so he held back. He was gripping his bag strap so tightly that his palm was beginning to hurt. Romano didn’t notice him. He was talking to himself. But...he was talking to someone else. He was having a conversation. Yet his voice was the only one speaking, in more than one language, Toni quickly realized. He switched effortlessly from Italian— _spregevole_ —to Spanish— _asqueroso—_ to Arabic— _majnun—_ to English— _stupid_. Toni could only make out a few words here and there. He was frightened, worried, in a certain stage of shock seeing Romano like this when just that afternoon he had been taking a siesta in his office. Walking along the ever-daunting ledge of this alcove with his arms out, whispering to himself and not wearing any shoes.

            And Toni had absolutely no idea what to do.

            But one thing he could not do was look away. Or allow Romano to see him.

            After a few moments, when his back was to Toni, Romano stopped. He swayed a little bit, keeping his arms out, before he crouched down and hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees. Toni thought for a moment that he was crying, because his shoulders were trembling and he could hear gurgles and muffled groans. But, when Romano lifted his head, Toni realized he was laughing. Not loudly. Softly, his chuckles restrained by the chains that seemed to wrap around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Then Romano stood back up and faced the edge of the stone ledge, stretching his arms out once again. Toni saw him take a step forward, until his toes were hanging off the void. The drop was not truly far...

            ...But it was far enough.

            Toni stepped forward and opened his mouth, ready to call out. His name, his _own_ name, a poem, an insult, anything that would get Romano to step backward for the love of God _Dios mío qué haces querido_.

            Before a single syllable could reach his outstretched tongue, another voice rang out.

            “Lovi!”

            From the other side of an alcove, beneath a stone entrance, came running a young man. Romano whirled around, bringing his arms back to his side and taking a step back. Toni let out a sigh of relief so heavy that it made him dizzy. The young man moved forward, his feet crushing the grass as he walked, cautiously, toward Romano. He was panting, completely out of breath, and the hoarseness in his voice was of a deep and passionate desperation. A relief.

            “Feliciano,” Romano said softly.

            The young man said something in Italian then. Toni moved back into the shadows, but did not retreat down the stairwell. He fixed his ears, trying to understand this conversation through his broken knowledge of Italian.

            Romano responded with a shrug, and turned to face outward again.

            “Lovi,” the young man repeated. Toni’s eyes were starting to adjust. The young man had almost the same exact build as Romano, except he was taller, and their faces looked frighteningly similar. But he couldn’t tell much more than that. Then the young man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it out. He said something in Italian, and the only thing Toni could make out was: “...your scary message on my phone.”

            Romano gave a quiet, quick, completely incomprehensible (to Toni) response. It seemed to exasperate the young man. The one he’d called Feliciano. This mysterious brother that Toni had heard so much about.

            Feliciano, quiet for a few moments, took another step forward. Then, his voice gentle and soothing, said something else. This time, Toni understood.

            “Please come down from there, Lovino.”

            Romano was still. Feliciano kept moving forward, until he was standing directly behind him. Then he reached out and grasped Romano’s idle, hollow hand. He pulled on it, and when Toni saw Romano’s entire body shudder, he felt his own body shudder, as well. He felt a hand squeezing at his pulsing heart, squeezing, squeezing hard. He caught the lump in his throat before the tears could form in his wide, awe-struck eyes.

            Finally.

            Finally, Romano turned and stepped down from the ledge, slowly, like an old man standing up from a chair he’d been sitting in for thirty years. Feliciano grabbed his hand and supported him as he came down, catching him when he stumbled forward. Toni believed for a moment that he could see the strength leaving Romano’s bones when his bare feet touched the grass.

            Then, without warning, he grasped onto the front of Feliciano’s shirts and began to sob like Toni had never heard anybody sob before.

            His wails were loud and earth-shattering. The two of them crumpled to the ground, while Romano sobbed into Feliciano’s chest and Feliciano wrapped his arms around him. They fell into the grass on their knees and Romano’s body trembled with emotions and tears and choking sobs that Toni had only dreamed about hearing from souls that had been tortured for eternities. Locked away, strangled, suffocating. Souls that cried like this when nobody else was looking for fear that they were betraying a strong side of themselves.

            _“OK_ _cosí,_ ” Feliciano murmured. He was stroking Romano’s hair and rocking him back and forth and, even in the darkness, Toni could see the tears stinging even Feliciano’s cheeks. But they were not the agonized tears that Romano shed. They were delicate, gentle tears. _“OK_ _cosí, fratellone.”_

            He kept repeating that phrase, over and over, until Romano began mumbling incoherently. Saying things in any and all languages, his voice drowned out by his weeps and the unstoppable shaking of his body. Then, his voice becoming tired and his body becoming weak, he fell completely into Feliciano’s embrace and began to murmur, softly. The same thing. Something Toni could understand.

            _“Mi dispiace molto. Mi dispiace molto. Mi dispiace molto.”_

i’m so sorry i’m so sorry i’m so sorry i’m so sorry

Toni, his heart quivering in his chest, silently went back down the stairwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i don't know Italian.


	8. 8

**8**

**Are You A Passionate Lover, Signor?**

****

_There are two boys riding in the back of a car._

_The car is old, a stick shift, but it moves smoothly and reliably along Rome’s narrow, cobblestone streets. The two boys feel comfortable and giddy in the backseat of this car, for they do not get into ride in it very often. The younger brother has the window on his side rolled down, using the old-fashioned lever, and is leaning his head out like a small, ecstatic dog. The older brother watches him for a few moments, hearing the unbalanced wind pounding in his ear and finding that he doesn’t mind so much. Then he turns back to the book in his lap and tries to align the beatings of his heart with the tires crashing against the road. The city through which they drive is familiar, but unfamiliar. They have walked the streets so many times, but in their polished suede shoes and gel-slicked hair and tiny, powdered noses, they have been sheltered from the inner labyrinths of the city._

_The younger brother is five, and the older brother is six. He is going to turn seven in a few months. Two months and four days, to be exact. His younger brother is already planning a present for him, though he does it in secret. He is worried that he won’t be able to organize anything in time._

_Nonno sits in the front seat, driving the car with a tranquil expression on his face. He is letting his mouth ramble, telling stories about his days as an adolescent running through these streets—they’ve changed, he says, and yet they are exactly the same. That’s the road I used to hang out with my friends at. We used to pester pretty girls when they walked by. And there’s the cinema we watched all our movies at—you should’ve seen them, piccolo!_

_Both brothers listen and absorb like sponges everything their Nonno has to say._

_They are not sure where they are going, but Nonno was vehement that morning, even with their reluctant father, that they were going somewhere very specific. A special trip for the older brother, but the younger brother was allowed to come. And the younger brother was hardly one to willingly spend a minute apart from his older counterpart._

_They drive out onto a country road and the two brothers, lulled by the rhythm of the drive and their Nonno’s voice, both fall asleep. When they wake up, Nonno is gently lifting them from their seats. They are in a parking lot of a small, white building. They have no idea where they are or why they are here. But Nonno is still smiling and ruffling their hair and giving them superfluous kisses on their foreheads and their cheeks. He holds their hands and squeezes them and they walk inside._

_They are at a clinic. A special one, owned by a doctor whose family is very close to Nonno’s. For a few minutes, they sit in a waiting room. The two brothers play eye-spy, though the older can always guess the younger’s thoughts within seconds, so it’s not much of a game. The older brother feels very nervous, and his younger brother can tell immediately. He reaches over and grabs his brother’s hand, and smiles at him. Through his apprehension, the older brother smiles back, his heart appeased._

_They are led through the door by a man in a white coat holding a clipboard. Nonno leads the way. The doctor asks the older brother many questions, and checks his entire body. The same way that they do at home once every three months, except this time the younger brother is exempt for some reason. When the older brother is not being tested, he is grasping his younger brother’s hand as if for raw survival, and looking to Nonno for reassuring looks._

_Finally they are done, and the older brother feels relieved beyond words. He and his younger brother sit in the chairs with their lollipops while the doctor sits in the room with them and begins to speak to Nonno in words a bit too large for them to understand. But, once they are done, Nonno turns to them._

_“Do you understand, piccolo?” he asks. The brothers both shake their heads. Nonno reaches over and places them both in his lap and kisses their temples. He explains to them the reason the older brother’s muscles move the way that they do—a disorder in his brain. This frightens him immensely, bringing him (and, subsequently, his brother) to tears, until Nonno smoothes his hair and shushes him._

_“You will take medicine and it will be fine, I promise. You are no different from your brother, I promise.”_

_So the older brother begins to take medicine for his chorea (Sydenham’s, the doctor calls it), though they do not tell their father. It is a secret among the three of them only, and this idea excites the brothers. They have a secret all their own with their beloved Nonno, something they can hold to their chests and treasure._

_But even as his muscle spasms begin to die down, the older brother does not feel at peace. Not when he feels the palm of his father on his cheek almost every day now, and hears the words over and over and over and over while his brother practices piano or paints in another room._

* * *

_...why can’t you be more like your brother...?_

_...what an unsightly boy...!_

            ... _if only you had such talent..._

_..._ un bambino spregevole... _a worthless child..._

* * *

 

            _He wets the bed out of fear almost each night, but this only makes it worse because, for Papá, there is only one punishment suitable for wetting the bed. Some days the older brother cannot get out of bed because of his soreness. Some days he cannot get out of bed because he does not feel that anybody wants him to. But when his brother runs into the room, tears streaming down his face from the loneliness, he of course gets out of bed. For his younger brother. For his Feliciano._

_Until, on the week after his seventh birthday, he is sent to Sicily._

* * *

            Feliciano, though Romano tried to convince him that it was unnecessary, decided to spend the next week sleeping in Romano and Kiku’s room. Kiku, with his kind nature and ability to withstand almost any disturbance, did not mind at all. Feliciano wouldn’t let Romano rent out a sleeping bag because he claimed that sleeping in the same bed would be easier and much more helpful, though the beds were small. So it happened that, two nights after his breakdown, Romano was curled up in bed, awake, staring at the window with Feliciano’s back against his. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was grasping the covers. He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep—in the same magical way that he had been able to in that Spanish professor’s office—but could not do it. Not with so many thoughts running through his head. Not with guilt plunging new and fresh into his heart, not with his eyes filling and refilling with tears. At the very least, Feliciano’s breathing calmed him down. Helped him find his center.

            He kept his eyes closed and tried to concentrate (as a therapist had once suggested who knows how many years ago) on one thing that made him happy, or even perplexed, to distract him from the negative thoughts. And he found his thoughts wandering to Toni’s office. Watching Toni read from his notebook. Feeling Toni’s eyes wavering from his words to his face. Toni forcing him to the somehow comfortable windowsill. Falling asleep, _really_ falling asleep, for the first time in years on that windowsill underneath that hand-woven blanket from Granada where, ironically, Romano had spent much of his adolescence.

            _Why do I keep thinking about him?_

_Maybe it’s something about the way he talks._

_He’s just a smooth-talker, that’s it!_

_Is that it...?_

Romano was very afraid of feeling attached, as a student or otherwise, to Antonio Fernández Carriedo. But the kindness he was being shown, the borderline annoying persistence, the earnest eyes and honest words...was he truly to blame for feeling the inevitable pull toward destruction?

            _Fuck._

“Lovi,” he suddenly heard. Quiet. Feliciano wasn’t asleep yet.

            “Eh?”

            “What are you thinking about?” Feliciano whispered. “I always wonder.”

            “You mean at this second?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “...I don’t know. What are you thinking about?”

            “I asked you first.”

            “I asked you second.”

            “I’m thinking about Nonno,” he said. Romano felt a terrible pressure in his chest and buried his face in his pillow. “Do you think about him a lot?”

            “Sure.”

            “You know, he asked about you a lot after you left,” Feli continued. “I don’t know if I ever told you that.”

            “You probably never got the chance to.”

            “No, you’re right,” he chuckled dryly. “He used to ask Papá all the time. ‘Where is little Lovi? How is my little Lovi doing? Tell little Lovi to come visit!’ Even though he knew it wasn’t up to you. He was optimistic and asking about you until the end.”

            Romano smiled shakily at his reflection in the window.

            “Yeah? For real?” he heard himself say.

            “For real.”

            “I guess I know where you get it from.”

            “Get what from?”

            “I don’t know...you’re just a lot like him.”

            “That’s nice to hear. Nonno was a good man.”

            “Mhmm.”

            “Do you miss him?”

            “What kind of question is that?”

            “You’re right. Silly of me to ask.” Feliciano shifted his position. “Good night, Lovi.”

            “Good night.”

Feliciano woke him up early the next day to help him get ready for class. With his help, Romano managed to go to every class, eat at least something for every meal, and even take his medication. Feliciano would hand them to him with such a sad look in his eyes that Romano would have no choice but to stomach the tablets and risk the loss of inspiration. A few times, though, when he needed to write something to show Toni, he would put a tablet under his tongue and spit it out later when Feliciano wasn’t looking so he could properly write. He wanted, for some reason, to maintain this routine he had developed with the professor that saw so much potential within him that he couldn’t even see in himself. He wanted to continue writing, giving Toni his writing to critique. They were recently becoming more active—Toni would give suggestions and ideas, hints and advice. And though Romano often brushed it off, hardly able to stomach the sincerity in Toni’s voice, he heard every single word with crystalline clarity.

            But when he next visited Toni’s office, the routine was broken.

            “ _Hola_ , Romano. How are you today? You look much better,” Toni greeted with a sickly-sweet smile. But it was comforting because it was something Romano was used to by now.

            “Yeah, thanks, I’m fine.”

            “ _Vale._ What did you write for me today?”

            “Another short story.”

            “Perfect. I want to talk to you about something,” Toni said with a clap of his hands. He looked strangely put together, Romano realized, with his hair neatly combed and his stubble shaved and his cologne overwhelmingly attractive. “This may sound strange, but...I want to talk to you seriously about being published.”

            “You’re still hung up on that?”

            “ _¡Claro!_ You could make a real name for yourself, _querido_. And now you have enough for a collection,” Toni smiled. He was swiveling slightly in his chair and it was making Romano dizzy. A side-effect of the pills, he told himself. “But I want to talk in a serious setting.”

            “...A what?”

            “I was thinking I could cook you dinner, and we could talk it over at my apartment,” Toni smiled. “I am making paella this Friday. You mentioned that you spent some time in España, so you should be accustomed to something like that, no?”

            Romano was so taken aback that he could not respond. He was having trouble finding his thoughts among the chaos that had erupted in his mind.

            “Ah, if you want to bring a friend—or your brother—or whomever, please feel free. But I have some things I want to show you and I think that is a better setting than my stuffy little office,” Toni continued, oblivious to Romano’s state of bewilderment. He let silence follow, tapping his pen on the table and reaching up to smooth his eyebrows every few moments. Romano opened his mouth, in an attempt to respond.

            “Are you _insane_?” he suddenly said. Toni blinked.

            “Maybe, but why do you ask?”

            “You’re inviting me to your apartment?”

            “ _Sí..._ is there a problem?” Then, it seemed to hit him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Ah, oh, but, ah...you don’t have to if you would feel uncomfortable! I didn’t mean, um, well...”

            His voice trailed off as he looked away, his face flushing and his voice flustered. Romano bit his lower lip and sat on his hands, now completely unsure of how to respond.

            _He’s inviting me to his house._

_What does that mean?_

_Well, his intentions don’t seem malicious or perverted..._

_He’s so stupid, it’s almost funny._

_Did he really not realize when he asked?_

_Fuck, now what do I do?!_

“Actually, forget I asked,” Toni suddenly said with a nervous chuckle. “I’ll just, ah—why don’t I bring you some books? And the contacts of a few people I know, that would be helpful, no?”

            “Do you make good paella?” Romano interrupted.

            “ _¿Cómo?”_

“Are you a good cook?” he repeated, exasperated.

            “Well, yes, I would like to think so.”

            “Fine. What’s your address?”

            Toni’s face lit up, and Romano’s heart began to twist and turn on itself, and he knew that he had made a terrible mistake; he had been destined to make it from the moment he had walked into Antonio Fernández Carriedo’s writing seminar.

            _I just cling to anything that shows me any semblance of affection._

_It’s not even affection. It’s just...attention._

_I cling to everything and suck the life out of it._

_I’ll suck the life out of him, too._

_But he’s inviting it._

_What does he think will happen if he keeps giving me that attention?_

_That’s right._

_I’ll convince myself that he cares, and I’ll dive headfirst._

_Unfortunately, I’m not very good at holding my breath._

 

* * *

 

            As it turned out, dinner at a professor’s house was not that unusual.

            “Ah, you’re going to his house for dinner? That’s nice!” Feliciano gushed. They were sitting at lunch—Romano, Feliciano, Ludwig (who followed Feliciano like a puppy), and Kiku, whom Feliciano and Ludwig had decided to recruit into their strange little friend group.

            “Is that common in Europe?” Kiku asked.

            “Sure it is! It means you’re a really good student. Right, Lovi?”

            “I don’t fucking know.”

            “Your professor has taken a liking to you,” Ludwig said, in between bites of his inhumanly-sized sandwich. “Consider yourself lucky.”

            “Tch. I don’t believe in luck,” Romano spat. He found that it was practically impossible for him to willingly agree to absolutely anything the German blockhead had to say.

            “You’ll have to tell me how it goes, all right?” Feliciano said. “And you have to make sure to really prepare, okay? You can’t just wear whatever and go unshaven and unshowered like you always do.”

            “Oi, Feli, shut up!”

            “No worries, your brother will help you,” Feliciano said with a wink.

 

* * *

 

            On Friday, Romano made sure to take every single one of his pills. He didn’t eat at all because he knew that if he had even the smallest bit of food, he wouldn’t be able to stomach the paella that was to come. But he wanted to have at least a plate of it. He had a strange feeling in his stomach all day; he couldn’t remember the last time he had been invited somewhere. Or, more accurately, he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually taken anybody up on their invitation because usually that entailed leaving the confines of his room and subjecting himself to the cruelties and boredoms of the world around him. And it meant keeping himself composed, which had recently become one of the more difficult of his daily errands.

            Feliciano helped him get ready, trying to tame his hair and letting him borrow cologne, and he even walked him to the apartment. He had also bought a bottle of champagne, telling Romano that it was rude to not bring something to someone’s house the first time they invite you.

            “Now, make sure you’re nice,” Feliciano said as they walked the path slightly off campus. “Be polite. He’s inviting you to his house to talk to you about something serious.”

            “Okay, Mother.” Romano was starting to feel very nervous. This was a bad idea—he knew for a fact that it was, and yet he kept putting one foot in front of the other. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? He told me I could invite you.”

            “No. I’ve never even met him!” Feliciano replied. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’m a phone call away if you need me, all right?”

            “...All right.”

            Feliciano was gone by the time Romano knocked on the door to Toni’s flat. It had a small plaque on it, with “Toni” inscribed, which Romano found odd. After a few moments, the door opened, to reveal the one and only standing behind it. He had a smile, bright and white and crooked, already plastered on his mouth. He wasn’t dressed in a very formal way—he had on a nice shirt, jeans, all beneath a white, frilly apron. His hair was just as messy as usual (perhaps messier), and Romano realized instantly how strange it was to see a professor in his home. He had never experienced this before, and it was unnerving. To think of these people as having lives outside of their duties at the university.

            “Romano! Welcome, welcome! Come in, please.” Toni took a slight step forward, but then caught himself and moved back, opening the door. Romano was grateful for that, because he wasn’t sure what his reaction would have been if Toni had tried the traditional Spanish and Italian greeting—the two kisses on either cheek. Romano, having unconsciously assumed a resentful expression and evident pout, walked inside. As Toni closed the door, he handed him the champagne.

            “Ah, what’s this? You didn’t have to!”

            “If you don’t want it _I’ll_ just keep it.”

            “N-no, that’s not what I meant. _Muchas gracias_ , _querido_. Please, make yourself at home. Dinner is almost ready.” Toni gestured to the small living room through the doorway, took the champagne, and disappeared into the kitchen. Romano took off his jacket and fell down upon the couch, drinking in his surroundings.

            The flat was small, and it didn’t seem like Toni had been living here long. The furniture was red, accented by a beige table and yellow cloths. The walls were almost completely hidden beneath paintings—Goya, Picasso, Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera—and photographs taken from all over the world, with the bright Spanish flag in the center of it all. They were crooked and didn’t seem to be ordered in any particular fashion, which the gave the place a certain charm. There were candles in every corner of the room, and on the table was a stack of papers so high it seemed as if it could scatter at any moment and a bookshelf against the wall that was full to the brim. Next to the bookshelf was a beautiful acoustic guitar. Romano closed his eyes and breathed in, and realized that it smelled exactly like his office. Coffee grinds, black tea, dried ink. Now he could smell aromas of chicken and spices coming from the kitchen. He realized then that there was music playing through the speakers. Relaxing guitar music. Purely instrumental. It reminded Romano of the days he’d spent in Spain, and it made him feel a little bit at peace.

            “Dinner’s ready!” called Toni.

            And there was something in his voice that set Romano on fire and solidified everything that he had been worried about up until that moment.

            _Like a leech that’s been starving, I cling to anything._

_Anything and everything that shows me its blood._

_Anything that might make the tears subside._

_I have a question for you, an important question._

_Are you a passionate lover?_

_¿Eres un amante apasionado, Toni?_

Romano stood up and went to the table for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chorea thing is ACTUALLY a thing in the comic i didn't just make it up i swear


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

**9**

**Stay the Night, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

            There are a few things about Antonio Fernández Carriedo that warrant clarification at this point.

            The first is that he was, in no conceivable way, expecting or planning to engage in an affair with his student, Lovino Vargas. When the reality that this was the path he had taken was thrown into his lap and he realized that the affair had been the destination the entire time, he found that he was not prepared in the slightest. As if he had been walking blind, or worse, deceived. Looking at the ground as he walked rather than in front. Perhaps if he had been looking in the right direction, he could have seen it coming—could have turned right at the fork, could have retraced his steps, could have hitchhiked until he was safely moving toward a different destination. Anywhere that was not this. The worst part of it all, the part that was to keep him up at night for days and weeks and months and years to come, was the fact that he had not seen it until he was at the door. He had not realized.

            When they had been sitting on opposite sides of the table and Romano had had a very faraway look in his eyes, staring up at the ceiling or down at his plate while Toni spoke to him. When he had been practically silent—he was not the talkative type, but he was quick to complain and even quicker to insult. But there was none of that tonight. When, with a strange flush to his cheeks and an unusual luster in his eyes he told Toni that the paella was delicious. Still Toni did not realize. He was still blinded, perhaps influenced by the more recent images of Romano that were replaying in his mind. Images of him crying, images of him walking dangerously along a ledge that could decide his life or death. Occasionally, the image of him sleeping at his windowsill. Silent and calm and almost eerily still in his slumber. Toni was distracted by himself.

            Toni considered asking Romano about that incident. Considered asking him what he had been thinking, did he know how dangerous that was, why would he even do that. But he realized, as the questions ran through his mind, that there must have been something deeper. Something even darker than Toni had been anticipating, dwelling inside of Romano’s heart. He saw a different darkness in him now, a darkness not brought on by himself but placed upon him without his desire. It was a darkness that was driving him to go out in the middle of the night without shoes on and walk as if on a tightrope, letting his life hang in the balance.

            Toni couldn’t get the courage to say anything, and he wasn’t even sure if he would be helping Romano at all if he mentioned it. He had wanted to mention it earlier, as well. But when he had opened his mouth to say something—if you need anything, I’m always here—I’m all ears if you want to talk—is everything okay, _querido_ —he had instead found himself inviting him over for dinner.

            And, when Romano had agreed, Toni still had not realized.

            When they sat on the couch after dinner, two goblets of champagne on the table, and Toni pulled out the books he had mentioned. Pulled out the business cards of those with whom he wanted to put the talented little Romano in contact. When he had spoken, the words flying off his tongue faster than he could control, about Romano’s stories and poems and the ways he could change them to fit into a single collection. He hardly noticed that, the entire time, Romano was staring down at his hands, clasped and gently shaking in his lap. He hardly noticed the sweat on Romano’s temple, the pout of his lip, the clenching of this teeth, the intensity and fear in his eyes. He hardly noticed that, with each passing moment, Romano was inching closer. Hands still clasped, sweat still beading, teeth still clenched.

            Toni attributed the increase in temperature to a slight hiccup in the central heating system of the apartment building.

            “Oi,” Romano suddenly blurted. He had cut off Toni in the middle of a sentence.

            “Eh? What is it?”

            “I’ve written a shit-ton for you,” he continued, eyes still averted to the ground, “and you haven’t shown me any of your work. You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

            “Ah, _sí, pero—”_

“Then you’ve got to have something.” Romano bit his lower lip and wrung his hands together. “I want to see it.”

            “My writing? You want to see _my_ writing?”

            “Did I stutter?”

            “Wow, Romano! I’m flattered,” Toni said, unable to hold back his laughter. He stood and walked to his bookshelf. “You’ve never shown interest in reading my work before.”

            He pulled out a tiny book, a novella he had written, and sat back down on the couch. Romano was looking at him hesitantly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed and Toni only then noticed that Romano’s tie was a little bit loose (why was he wearing a tie?). He handed the book to Romano. Romano began flipping through it, and Toni watched his eyes scanning the words on the page, from left to right, like marbles.

            “It’s in Spanish. One of the first works I had published,” he explained.

            Romano did not respond. Toni sat with his smile, hands in his lap, his leg shaking slightly to the music. It was Juanjo Dominguez, an Argentinean guitarist who had stolen his heart. His novella, in fact, was about a guitarist.

            Just then, when Toni hadn’t been paying attention, Romano said something. Very softly, so softly he hadn’t heard over the music.

            “ _¿Cómo? No te escuché,”_ he said.

            “I said, it’s flowery.” Romano raised his voice to an unnecessarily loud tone, and it made Toni chuckle.

            “Yes, that is my style, I suppose.” He leaned a little bit closer to follow along the page that Romano was reading. “I enjoy description, _¿sabes?_ I like to create an image in the reader’s mind that they feel they can truly see.”

            Romano pointed to a specific spot on the page.

            “Why did you even bother describing this? It seems pointless.”

            “Pointless? No, _mi hijo_ , no!” And, involuntarily, Toni fell into an explanation about why he had included those sentences, those words, even those specific punctuation marks; he knew that if anyone were to understand, it was Romano. He could hear himself speaking but lost himself. He did not notice when Romano, still watching the pages of the book while Toni spoke, bent his leg just slightly, until it was brushing Toni’s. Did not notice when Romano finally looked up from the book and straight into his eyes, his cheeks red and bright. Did not notice when Romano put the book down.

            He still had not realized then.

            Even then.

            He gave the book to Romano, telling him that he could keep it if he’d like.

            At the door, Romano had thanked Toni while his tongue dripped with what he assumed was bitterness (later he was to learn that it was merely nerves) and said that he would take his critiques into consideration and contact the people and see what he could do. Toni had been very happy and had, without thinking, lifted a hand to put on Romano’s shoulder. But as soon as he had lifted it Romano had flinched and taken a step back, coming to a halt as he made contact with the door.

            Toni had apologized and asked if he wanted anything else.

            Dessert. Another glass of champagne. Some paella to take home.

            He still had not realized.

            A kiss, sudden and unapologetic, in the midst of the heat and the waning music and the smell of chicken and rice. Young, full lips pressing against his fresh with the taste of champagne. A pressure, warm and soft and heartwrenching, spreading from his lips through his mouth, down his throat and to his stomach. A slight grip, like a lost child’s, on the sleeve of his shirt. Pulling ever so slightly, tightening with one moment and loosening with the next. Though the kiss was, itself, a fraction of a moment. But that moment was eternity itself, expanding and encasing them as the kiss crashed against him like waves and he was blinded, unaware of everything but the feeling of those lips. Every curve, every dent, every perfect little nuance. Toni did not close his eyes, but could see Romano closing his.

            Then came the bumbling, the incoherent apologies, the scrambling for the doorknob. Standing motionless for a few seconds, drinking in the reality. Finally recognizing this place he had come to, been walking toward since the beginning, and there was no retreating now. Once Toni had realized where he was, he looked deep within him and said with a firm nod and a fire on his lips, This is what I want, and he opened the door and walked inside.

            “Romano.”

            Another kiss. Hand to cheek. The heat had spread to every inch of his skin, every part of his body, every little corner of his soul. It was all on fire. He wondered if Romano felt this hot, if Romano felt this uncontrollable, if he too felt that he was being pulled along by the Fates to some unknown land where kisses like this were the fruit of salvation. The kiss was divine now. The feeling of trembling, earnest fingers reaching up to clench at the front of his shirt and pull him. His chest pressed against another’s, feeling even through their clothes the beating of his heart. His tongue, surely more experienced and heavy with the weight of the Spanish it had spoken, begging entry through the nervous, tight-lipped gate. Warm, wet, sweet. With the potential to make him drunk. His hands moved of their own, sliding beneath the clothes to feel the skin that was there.

            A slow tango played now.

            Bareness. Skin against skin, being able to feel even the slightest tremors in his body. His tongue became a navigator, a mapmaker, traversing these mysterious but enchanting lands. Upper lip, lower lip, a sweet tongue awaiting its arrival, the edges of the world at his throat. The bumps and hill of his jaw, his vulnerable neck as he heaved a sigh so great it might have moved mountains. Feeling a tug on his hair as the fingers pulled, knotted, and the sighs became cavernous tremors that made his lips quake against the skin.

            Legs around his waist, carrying toward the bed, but without pulling away for even a second—for fear that he would lose his place, for fear that he would come to his senses, for fear that he might forget the immense pleasure of tasting the salt of this skin on his tongue. He brought him gently onto the bed, kneeling, kissing stomach and undoing belt. While the breaths were a symphony in his ears and his fingers were burning in desire. Clambering onto the bed, tongues and lips intertwining desperately but tenderly as passion took corporeal form between them in sighs and moans and the guttural sounds of animals. Even more skin against skin now, and skin against bed-sheet, breath against breath. Arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him down, crushing him with lips plump and smooth with lust.

            They forgot where they were, who they were, and they preferred it that way.

            Hands on parts of his body that he forgot existed. Making him shake as if this heat were in fact cold, instead. Whispering the Spanish words that came to his mind into this red, red ear beneath him.

            _Bello...querido...más._

While he heard Sicilian words in his own ear, painting over his thoughts with a foggy haze that made him delirious.

            He said in Spanish then that he wanted him very much, and was becoming impatient.

            Gently, fingers first, to give some sense of comfort. But he realized quickly, watching the body beneath him move like a dancer’s and feeling its very core, that this was not his first time. Which was fine, because this was not his first time, either.

            Reaching over to the cupboard, pulling out a tube of cream.

            Letting the heat overtake them, grasping at sheets and bare skin with clawed fingers, leaving scars and rips. Hearing pleas for more, for harder, please, even as he watched tears streaming down his face. He let the pleasure control him, drive him, until he felt that he would implode from the sensations. Leaning his head down and crying out into his ear while he moved, while he _was_ moved, while languages from all corners of the world collided in a moment where there was nothing that could have been said and understood, for their minds were too misty and their senses too clogged.

            Suddenly worried that the neighbors might hear.

            Pushing the fear aside and rolling beneath the sheets until they were deafened by their own outcries of pleasure.

            Toni lay in bed, struggling to catch his breath, while Romano groaned and sat up. Toni’s vision was still blurry and he was still trying to come to terms with what had just happened, but Romano seemed in a very different place mentally. His expression was stoic, eyes still glistening but emotionless. Lips set in a straight line, light (inevitable) tearstains on his still-flushed cheeks. Toni stared at him unflinchingly now as he, still naked, stood from the bed and began to put on his scattered clothing. He wasn’t sure what to say now, wasn’t sure how to tell him exactly what he was thinking—wasn’t even sure what he was thinking. What was he thinking? That, surely, this was not only his fault. This was a path trodden by two souls. Romano had asked for it, had he not?

            He couldn’t be in the wrong, could he? he asked himself.

            But then why was there such a forlorn expression on Lovino Vargas’s face? he asked himself.

            “Romano, are you okay?” he said through his gasps.

            “I’m fine,” he replied, though he didn’t sound fine at all.

            “ _¿Seguro?”_

_“Sí, seguro.”_ Romano slid his shirt over his head and began his futile attempts to straighten his hair. Toni smiled gently, charmed, leaning his head on his hand.

            “I’m leaving. Thank you for dinner.”

            “What? You’re leaving?” Toni heard himself say. “Why don’t you stay the night, _querido_? It’s late.”

            Somehow, _querido_ sounded very different this time.

            “No.”

            “It’s dark, should I walk you—?”

            “No, I’m fine. Good night.”

            Before Toni could give another protest, Romano was gone, leaving Toni utterly confused and remorseful in his wake while the guitar continued to play and his heart continued to reel.

 

* * *

 

            The second thing that warrants clarification is the fact that Antonio Fernández Carriedo did, in fact, have a wife, but he never wore his wedding ring because it left his finger feeling uncomfortable.

            He had never been fully convinced that he was in love with her, and he knew that she felt the same about him, but they had found in each other a compatibility that they were certain they would never find anywhere else. Their marriage was a covenant, an agreement to provide for one another and support one another and stand by one another. He had been married to her for five years. She was a doctor, intelligent and ambitious and beautiful, but her work required travel. It was for that reason that she had agreed they move to this area that one might have had a hard time locating on a map—she wouldn’t be there very often, they knew. While she travelled they were in constant contact, and she would come home for weeks at a time.

            Toni and his wife had been in the same university together and had started off as friends, and had then decided to take each other to bed. Unfortunately, their sexual relationship proved to be disappointing in comparison to their emotional relationship.

            Both of them felt it was important to be open and honest with one another and, up until that point, it had kept their relationship going rather strongly. They provided well for each other, and balanced each other out; she was much more level-headed and observant than he was, and certainly more ambitious and focused. He was more relaxed, more gentle, and they were helpful for one another. An observer might have even said that their relationship was perfect. In fact, up until that very moment, Toni had never had an affair (though he wasn’t sure about his wife).

            Regardless of the fact that their sexual relationship was not strong, and regardless of the fact that they did not very often see each other...regardless of the fact that he was absolutely positive that he wasn’t in love with her, Toni knew that if his wife were to find out that he were sleeping with someone else, especially a student, it would create an unmendable tear in their relationship.

            But now he was there. He had arrived to this place, this inescapable fortress, and knew that there was no choice for him now. Now that he had felt the pleasure in his body and felt the pounding of his heart as he had watched Romano’s face brighten and his body twist and turn beneath him, there was nothing more for him to question. He wanted more than to see Romano’s potential as a writer blossom—wanted so very desperately to see him as more than a student. This passion was the same passion that he had never been able to feel with his wife and it was crippling. He wanted to hold Romano and whisper into his ear, wanted to feel him fit into his embrace. He wanted to hear the whispers of Romano’s soul, wanted to open him and look inside and fix the damaged parts. He wanted to be the one wiping the tears. Was ready to risk it all—his job, his wife, his sanity if need be—if only he could have Romano just once more.

            And yet.

            He had left so quickly.

            Toni wasn’t sure what to think.


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fav chapter so far
> 
> hope you like it loves
> 
> xoxo

**10**

**Will You Burn with Me, Signor?**

_There are two boys._

_But they are not together anymore._

_The younger brother is in Rome, sitting in his bedroom, lying on the same bed he once shared with his brother. It is not nighttime. It is still light out and, at times like this, he is having his piano lesson. Or his history lesson. Or his painting lesson. But he has refused to leave his room. The maids have brought him a meal that he has not eaten, though his stomach grumbles. He knows, in the back of his mind, that his brother would be upset with him for not eating or leaving his room, but he cannot find the will to leave. He can only sit in bed and cry because his brother is gone and he cannot understand why. He tried asking his father, after being ripped away screaming while his brother cried his name on the passing train. Why did my brother have to leave? He did not receive an answer and still does not know why his brother had to leave._

_There is a knock on his door, but his voice is hidden in his sobs. He is only six years old._

_Nonno comes into the room. The younger brother does not mind if it’s Nonno. He loves Nonno, and knows that Nonno will not make him cry more. Nonno sits on the bed and cradles him in his arms, kissing his forehead and saying kind things. The boy asks again why his brother had to leave._

_“He has to go explore,” Nonno says._

_The boy asks why they cannot explore together._

_“Because you must explore different things,” Nonno says._

_He does not tell the boy that, in reality, the only reason they cannot explore together is because Papá does not want them to explore together. The boy does not feel comforted and continues to cry. He wants to paint another picture and send it to his brother, who for all he knows is still on a train to a mysterious land that he will never see._

_“How about this?” Nonno says. “Why don’t you and I, every day, send him a letter telling him about our adventures?”_

_The boy stops crying, a smile spreading across his face as he imagines himself writing into words everything that he does, every adventure he has, everything he sees and all the music he hears, for his brother._

_“And then he can write to us, too.”_

_The younger of the two brothers agrees, hugging his Nonno as strongly as he can with his little arms, and from that day forward they write letters addressed to a little villa in Sicily. The boys’ father does not know about the letters._

_“And how about this?” Nonno says again. “Why don’t you and I take a train to visit him every month?”_

_The boy begins to cry again, but out of happiness. He feels relieved that he will be able to see his brother again, that their separation is not forever. He cannot wait until he can feel his brother’s kiss on his forehead again and play piano for him. Even though his brother enjoys the sad music, and he enjoys the happy music. He will play sad music if that’s what his older brother wants._

* * *

 

_...why can’t you be more like your brother...?_

_...what an unsightly boy...!_

            ... _if only you had such talent..._

_..._ un bambino spregevole... _a worthless child..._

* * *

 

Get him out of my sight this instant.

* * *

 

_The older brother is in Sicily, sitting in his new bedroom. He is completely and utterly terrified—too terrified even to shed a tear. He is afraid of what is going to happen to him here in this new place, with these people he does not know, though they claim that they are his family. They claim that his mother, the mother he does not remember, is from here. From this place called Sicily, not called Rome. They speak in a strange accent. He cannot stop shaking. When a man at the train station met him and brought him to his new home, he was shaking and could not walk on his own. He had to be carried. But as soon as the man touched him, he began flailing his arms and screaming as fear unlike any other pulsed through his body._

_He hopes that here, at least, nobody will hit him. Or perhaps he will given time for the bruises to heal so that others won’t notice him and he can play in the streets without being asked questions he does not want to be asked. Though he does not have anybody to play with now that he has left his younger brother._

_The people in his new house have tried to speak with him, but he cannot find the words or the strength to respond. He misses his brother and his Nonno. He wants to hear his brother playing piano for him again. He wants to kiss his forehead and tell him what a good job he is doing, because he knows his younger brother loves that._

_He is sitting in bed after about three days, and a man comes in. He has dark skin, just like the boy’s, and his eyes are a similar color, too. He seems familiar, though the boy is certain that he has never seen this man before. He knocks, says the boy’s name, and then comes in._

_“I am your mother’s brother,” he says. “Call me Ziu.”_

_The older brother does not say anything as the man sits down on the bed._

_“You must be confused,” he continues, “but we’ll take care of you here.”_

_The boy opens his mouth and hears himself say that he wants to see his brother._

_“You will,” Ziu says. “I promise.”_

_The boy is comforted slightly because Ziu looks a lot like him. He is dark, too. And, listening to it now, he doesn’t mind the new dialect. It’s nice. He tries to convince himself. Ziu tells him that he can learn many new things in Sicily. He is Sicilian, after all—well, he is one-fourth Sicilian._

_“Half-Italian, one-fourth Sicilian, and one-fourth Moroccan,” Ziu tells him. “But all of your Moroccan family moved to Spain before you were born.”_

_The brother has heard of Morocco. It is in Africa. He asks if they speak African there._

_“No. They speak Arabic. Do you want to learn it? I could teach you.” Ziu is happy that the older brother is finally speaking._

_The boy is not sure. But he has managed to stop shaking now and there are tears running down his cheeks. Ziu does not know what to do, so he tries to lift a hand and touch the boy’s shoulder. But the boy flinches, curls into himself and moves backward in the bed, so Ziu smiles and just lets him cry in peace. The boy’s grandfather warned him over the phone, after all, that the boy does not like to be touched. And his bruises are still visible._

_He does learn Arabic, alongside a continuation of his English lessons. His Roman accent slides into a Sicilian dialect. He writes back to his brother and his Nonno almost every day and he plans his entire life around their monthly visits. He is not happy in Sicily, but he is not sad. It becomes his home. They don’t hit him here, and they don’t tell him he is worthless. But still he cries himself to sleep, and he screams when Ziu (or anyone else) tries to touch him. He is not happy in Sicily, but he is not sad. It is his new home._

_Until his Nonno dies when he is thirteen and his brother is twelve._

_And he is sent to boarding school in Granada._

           

* * *

 

            Romano decided not to leave bed for the next three days, even as Feliciano pestered him. Even Kiku tried to get him out of bed. But he found, whenever he tried to push himself to leave, that he simply couldn’t do it. So he burrowed under the covers and stared at the window, filtering out anything else. Feliciano came into the room and called him and sent him messages but Romano still didn’t budge. He was still reeling, still confused, his body and his mind both shaken to the point that he could not find the willpower to do anything. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Toni’s face there, smiling with lips wet and cheeks reddened with passion. In the silence he heard Toni’s voice crying out his name, and he could feel his touch against his skin and, at one point, he caught himself rubbing his skin to try and rid himself of the strange, phantom pleasure.

            But it was a demonic pleasure. It was driving him to the point of madness (was he already mad?) and he wasn’t sure how to stop it. It had been his fault, after all. He had kissed his Spanish professor, had been planning it all night, in fact. Had begged him for the affection by means of his tongue and his hands and his primal moans. But, worse than that, Toni had given it to him without a second thought. Had grabbed him and kissed him back and made him see stars, and now he couldn’t find the motivation to leave his bed because everything was cold and gray and he couldn’t even stomach the thought of taking his pills. His pillowcase was covered in tears but he bore the wetness against his cheek because it would have been too much effort to move.

            “Lovi...you’ve been in bed for three days,” Feliciano said. Romano hadn’t even noticed him come in that time.

            “Oh.”

            He felt Feliciano kneel next to the bed, and then he felt Feliciano’s hand rest on his head. He flinched for a moment, but then fell back against the pillow as Feli brushed through his oily, unkempt hair. He couldn’t bear to look at him.

            “Will you at least eat something? I brought us pizza.”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “You haven’t taken your medicine since Thursday.”

            Romano didn’t respond. He realized that it was Monday now.

            “Please talk to me, Lovi. I want to help you,” Feliciano murmured. Romano heard his voice cracking and felt as if he were being crushed by the darkness in his own heart. He knew that Feliciano was crying now, but he was a much more graceful crier. He could hide his sobs, make it delicate. Not like Romano.

            He still didn’t say anything. But he turned over in bed, so that he was facing his younger brother. Without a word, he took Feliciano’s hand and squeezed it with what little strength he had. Feliciano smiled, hastily wiping his tears, and kept his hand running through Romano’s hair.

            “Tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it, _fratellone_ ,” he said.

            “Well first off, don’t cry,” Romano said. He hadn’t said a single word in three days, and his voice was extremely hoarse. He felt strange, almost like he wasn’t human anymore.

            “Okay, I won’t, no more,” Feliciano said with his characteristically large smile. Romano wished he could find the will to smile back, but he just squeezed Feli’s fingers harder. “Will you get out of bed? You’ll feel better if you shower and eat something.”

            Romano couldn’t bear the thought of eating, but he agreed silently to the shower. Feliciano, with a smile like a proud mother’s, helped Romano out of bed. He showered, and then Feliciano blow-dried his hair for him while he, just to please Feli, managed to swallow a few bites of margherita pizza and drink a full cup of water. Kiku walked in a little while later.

            “Ah, Romano-kun is finally out of bed,” he said with a gentle smile. “Do you need anything from me?”

            Romano shook his head, and Feliciano said, “No, but thank you, Kiku,” in his bright Italian accent. Romano, though his mind was still hazy, was able to find a little bit of comfort in the fact that Kiku had been genuinely worried. Perhaps he did truly care. Surely there were still some people who existed that cared for him.

            “Ah, Lovi, you never told us how dinner at that professor’s house went,” Feli said after a while. Romano was sitting on his bed, cross-legged, his blanket around his shoulders and a cup of warm tea in his hands. Feliciano sat beside him, and Kiku glanced up from his manga. Romano, feeling the weight on his shoulders become heavier, shrugged and looked into his mug.

            “It was fine,” he said softly.

            “Was the food yummy?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “I have never tried Spanish food,” Kiku said. “How is it?”

            “Same old, same old,” Romano grumbled.

            “He went to school in Spain for five years,” Feliciano clarified. “He’s used to it.”

            “Ah.”

            “You should go thank him tomorrow, eh, Lovi?” Feliciano said. “Take him flowers or something.”

            “I already took him a fucking bottle of champagne.”

            “Oh, right...well, at least write him a nice card or something.”

            Romano realized, contrary to what he had expected, that he wanted to see Toni. After they had slept together, he had decided that he never wanted to see Toni’s face again in a moment of intense regret and terrible guilt.

            _Look what you’ve done, you’ve fucked everything up._

_You’re setting yourself up to get hurt._

_You know what happens if you keep letting him touch you?_

_Stay away, Lovino._

_You fuck everything up, anyway._

But now there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a magnetic force that was pulling him inevitably back toward that stupid, Spanish writer. But he was terrified trying to imagine what their next encounter would be like. He couldn’t even picture what Toni’s face would look like. He would be smooth, calm, smiling, as if nothing had happened at all. He would ask Romano with that stupidly oblivious and sincere voice if he were okay, and Romano would have no idea what to say.

            “Yeah. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

            “Will you go to class, too? And come have lunch with me and Ludwig?”

            Romano couldn’t say no to Feliciano.

            _Stay away._

_Go see him._

_Stay the hell away, it’s trouble._

_Go see him._

_You’re trouble._

_But he’s beautiful, isn’t he?_

* * *

 

Romano did get up the next morning. He showered again and he shaved, he brushed his teeth, and he had a cup of milk. He took his pills. He and Kiku walked to class together, and then he met with Feliciano and the German blockhead for lunch, though he was only able to nibble on some French fries and drink another cup of milk. He had decided, that morning, that he would go visit Toni after lunch, even though that was usually his siesta time (he technically wasn’t supposed to be sleeping, but it had proved useless to try and break from his habits). If Romano could catch him at the right moment, he wouldn’t have to wake him up. He left a little before the ring of the bell and told Feliciano that he wouldn’t be able to have dinner—he had a late class that day; ironically enough, Toni’s class, but Feliciano was free to come by his room after nine.

            Only when Romano finally found himself at the door of Toni’s office did he feel as if he were about to throw up. He became dizzy, his skin became hot, and he was seeing stars. But he hugged himself and closed his eyes, taking a few deep, deep breaths to regain his composure. He tried to shut out all the memories from that night, but an experience like that was difficult for his body to forget, even for a few minutes. He was afraid that his trembles were too noticeable today, but the medications seemed to make it easier for him to calm down. Though, if he were to try and write anything, it would just be impossible.

            Blinking away the bright colors and putting his head back in place, Romano knocked on the door. The voice rang back at him, as it always did, saying, “Come in.” Silky smooth, thick and dramatic, joyful in its tones. A piece of music in itself. It gave Romano goosebumps as he remembered that same voice whispering in his ear.

            _When did I start hearing his voice like that?_

_Was it when he said my name and told me he was impressed with me?_

            Gently, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Toni was at his window, reading a book, just like when Romano had come to his office for the first time. Bare feet, rolled up pants, glasses sliding down his nose. He looked up and saw Romano and blinked. He was silent for a few moments, frozen like a sculpture, while Romano (for the first time), closed and locked the door. It would have been a disaster if anyone were to interrupt.

            “Romano,” Toni said, standing up. He put his glasses on the desk and ran his fingers through the knots in his hair. “How are you doing?”

            When Romano tried to speak, he realized that his voice was gone, so he just shrugged and stared down at his boots. The silence that followed was cripplingly awkward, with such heaviness that Romano thought he was going to faint. Toni must have noticed, for he insisted then that Romano sit down. But Romano shook his head and remained standing. So Toni did, too.

            “Um, about this Friday,” Toni began. Romano didn’t want to have this conversation. But he knew that they had to have it. “I...I need to apologize.”

            Romani looked up, surprised.

            “It was wrong of me to put you in that situation. I realize that...well, perhaps I was unintentionally giving you signals, or...I’m not entirely sure.”

            His vision was become blurred with the tears that he had so hoped would not appear.

            _What am I even doing here?_

_What do I want from him?_

_Does it even matter what I want?_

            “ _Bueno_ , the point is, I’m very sorry,” Toni said. Romano didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see Toni’s smiling, apologetic, ugly face.” Maybe it would be better if we didn’t speak in private like this for a while, _sí?_ I’m so sorry. I’ve put you in a terrible situation, Romano. I should have controlled myself.”

            “Sorry?” he repeated. Toni didn’t respond. “You’re sorry for fucking me?”

            “Eh?”

            “You regret it?” Romano’s head snapped up as tears rolled down his cheeks. He had so hoped that today might be the exception, the one day of dryness in his eyes. Toni furrowed his brow, a serious and daunting expression that Romano had never seen him make before.

            “You would take it back if you could, eh? Because you don’t give a fuck. You couldn’t care less, right? Just another night with some random guy that doesn’t even matter, _right?”_

“...¿ _Cómo?”_

            “I’m the one that kissed you first, don’t you remember, you Spanish bastard?” Romano spat. He was seeing red. “But it doesn’t matter. You couldn’t give a fuck about how I feel. You don’t care what I want. You just do whatever the hell you want whenever you want. You make all the decisions.”

            Romano had not expected those words to leave his lips. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, what he wanted, why he had been drawn to Toni’s office today like a moth to a flame. Why he had kissed him at his door, why he had begged to be touched. He wasn’t sure why his skin was burning and his heart was beating and he wanted nothing more than for Toni to take him into his arms again.

            But, actually, he was sure.

            It was because Toni had smiled at him and said, in one way or another, I welcome you.

            Somewhere along the line, between their first meeting and now, Romano had dragged himself through the mud and crossed that not-so-blurred boundary into this dangerous territory. Somewhere along the line, his desire had flared up, uncontrollable and unexpected. Its fuel, maybe, had been the kind words that Toni spoke to him—the way he looked up at him—the way he smiled the kind of smile that was genuine. Or, if it wasn’t, he had managed to trick Romano’s weak, fickle, so desperate heart, into thinking that it was.

            _I’m desperate enough to be easily tricked, aren’t I?_

Romano couldn’t remember the last time someone had so warmly taken him into their life, no questions asked. He still had no idea why Toni had done it. Had he predicted what it would do to Romano? The chain reaction it would cause inside him? If Toni had known the desperation that lay exploding inside Romano, perhaps he would never have kept him after class to ask about his poem.

            One thing Romano was sure of was that once Toni saw what lay within him—the monsters and demons dwelling in his head—he would surely regret ever looking into his eyes.

            _Even if it’s all fake, even if you truly don’t care about me..._

_Just pretending is enough._

            He let out a string of curses in Sicilian and then put his hands to his head. He accepted, with pain in his limbs, that his heart was in Toni’s hands. Toni was completely dumbstruck, his jaw open and his eyes wide.

            “I...” he began, quietly. “Romano, I’m your _professor_.”

            He dug his fingers more deeply into his scalp and closed his eyes.

            “I’m over ten years older than you.”

            _shut up shut up shut up_

“Of course I care how you feel,” he continued. “That’s why I’m saying this. Before it gets out of hand.”

            “You _fucked_ me! It’s already out of hand!” Romano cried. His temper had taken over and he had no control over what was to come from his mouth. “I went home and had to clean your _cum_ out of my _ass!”_

“Romano, please—!”

            “But it’s not like you wanted that, right? Not like you actually cared about me. Just a stupid mistake, right? Just caught in the moment, right? Just led on by some _stupid kid_ , right?”    

            “It’s not like that.”

            _liar liar liar liar_

            “Yeah? _Yeah?”_ Romano was panting, unable to find his breath and unable to stop the waterfalls falling from his irises. “Then what is it like? Tell me. Enlighten me.”

            “I am a professor. You are a student. Not to mention I’m married,” Toni said, his voice deep and dark and low. Romano swallowed.

            “You’re married...?”

            Toni nodded. Romano gritted his teeth and squeezed his hands into fists and took a step closer.

            “You let me kiss you...you fucked me in your own bed...and you’re _married?”_

Toni sighed again and Romano could have predicted his next words.

            “I’m sorry. I am. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have...that night was a mistake.”

            Romano felt as if he had been slapped in the face.

            “A mistake,” he repeated, hollowed of his energy. “Right. Just a mistake.”

            “No, Romano—”

            “Just a _fucking_ mistake.” He couldn’t support his weight anymore. He leaned backward against the door and held his head in his hands and stared at the ground. “I’m always the mistake. I’m always just the mistake. Everything is always a fucking mistake.”

            “Romano.” He realized, as he heard Toni whisper his name, that he had taken another step forward and was looking unrelentingly into his eyes. “I want to make this clear. This is not about me not wanting you. This is about a relationship that will not work. _¿Me entiendes?_ ”

            Romano was silent for a few moments.

            “Do you regret it?” he said softly. “Do you really, honestly regret it?”

            Silence.

            “Look me in the eyes and tell me you regret it, you fucking bastard.”

            Silence.

            “ _Tell me how much you regret it!”_

Romano snapped his head up, grabbed the collar of Toni’s shirt, and kissed him. It brought Toni forward. His eyes wide, his lips cold. Romano shut his very tightly. Then he pulled away, clenching his teeth, still grasping onto Toni’s shirt.

            “Tell me that you don’t want this. Tell me that you want me to leave because you can’t stand to see my stupid face,” he hissed. “Tell me that the night we spent together was disgusting, was horrible, tell me that you regret it. But I will _never_ say that. And I don’t give a fuck about anything else. I don’t fucking care how old you are or if you’re married—and maybe that makes me a terrible goddamn person. But I don’t care.”

            “It will end in flames.”

            “They will be beautiful flames,” Romano heard himself say. “Deep red and passionate. Everything ends in flames anyway, right?”

            _Don’t do this, you idiot._

_He’s right._

_Even if he actually does give a shit about you._

_It’ll all end in flames._

Without another word, Toni took Romano’s face in his sweating hands, looked into his eyes for a few moments, and then gently, tenderly, kissed his lips. As if he had been desperate from the beginning. Romano reached up and touched his wrists, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating very hard on the taste. Coffee. With a hint of sweetness. Then, as Romano leaned back against the door, he felt Toni’s tongue graze the front of his lips. Probing, gentle, silently asking for entry and teasing all at once. Romano felt the tingles beginning to spread through his limbs, from his lower body outward, and opened his mouth to take him in. Toni slid his tongue, thick and eager, between his lips and pressed it against his own.

            Romano still felt too far.

            He wrapped his arms around Toni’s neck and pulled him closer until their chests were together and he could feel the ridges of the door digging into his back. Toni, moving smoothly and easily with Romano’s cues, tilted Romano’s head upward and thrust his tongue harder, deeper, until Romano heard a groan escape his own lips. Their tongues intertwined, drew a path between their lips together, making Romano dizzy with lust. He felt Toni’s fingers slide into his hair as he brought his knee in between Romano’s legs. Pushed upward gently.

            “Mmf!” Romano let out a gasp and leaned his head back against the door, his fingers clawing at the back of Toni’s shirt. He was desperate for more of him, more of his bare skin, deep in his bones, his voice along the surface of his body, as Toni slid his cold hands beneath his shirt and he felt the calluses of his palms on his stomach.

            “Is this what you want?” Toni whispered in his ear. Romano’s knees became weaker. “Tell me this is what you want. If you say the words, Romano... _querido_...I am yours.” He traced the outline of Romano’s ear with his tongue, and pressed his knee up even more. Romano clenched his teeth and moaned gently.

            “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “This is what I want. This is what I want. This _is_ what I want.”

            Toni grabbed Romano’s hand and put it to his chest, and Romano could feel his heartbeat there. As his eyelids fluttered and he became lost in the sensation of Toni’s tongue on his neck, hand on his stomach, chest to chest and hip to hip.

            “ _Este corazón es tuyo, Lovino Vargas_ ,” he murmured. His heartbeat became an earthquake, a tsunami, a ravaging storm. _“Es completamente tuyo.”_  

            _If I were to go down in flames with you..._

_Then let me burn._

            _Will you burn with me?_

_¿Quemarás conmigo, Toni?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw in case you were wondering it is canon that Romano has Arab blood in him--Hima uses it as one of the explanations for him being darker than Veneziano. 
> 
> and ur damn right imma milk that


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (づ￣ ³￣)づ

  **11**

**You Are My Muse, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

For a minute, looking into Romano’s teary eyes and hearing the words falling from his mouth and feeling a hungry, lustful desperation to kiss him, Toni actually forgot that he was married. Forgot that he could lose his job. Forgot that he hardly knew Romano except for the fact that his writing could make his heart ache and his head spin—except for the fact that he was struggling with something ravenous and terrible in his heart. Something Toni wasn’t sure how he would handle.

            But, when Toni remembered all of those things, he realized he didn’t care.

            He realized, as Romano stood steadfast and forced him to decide what he wanted, that it was Lovino Vargas. It was Lovino Vargas that he wanted. All of him. His tears and his smiles and his scars and his rough edges and the poetry that he wrote with such sincerity and such modesty and with such eager fingers, clutching pens worn from use. His gaunt, tan skin and skinny limbs and lightly freckled cheeks. His green Sicilian eyes (sometimes amber) and his pale Sicilian lips and his dark Sicilian hair. Toni wasn’t sure when he had started wanting Lovino Vargas, but it had been long before this moment. The desire had been dormant within him, forced to sleep in the shadows by what most people tend to call common sense, but Toni now considered blindness.

            His desire for Romano was all he could see, all he could think, while he kissed him and put Romano’s hand to his chest and said to him, My heart is yours.

            Romano’s arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling him in tightly. Toni pressed his knee up again between Romano’s legs and ran his tongue along his lower lip as he gasped, fingers clutching at Toni’s shirt. Romano bit his own lower lip, watching Toni’s face through half-open eyelids, and his expression was driving Toni mad. He bent down and kissed the tip of Romano’s nose, and began sliding his hands beneath Romano’s shirt. Then, like a child, Romano began tugging on Toni’s shirt, a silent plea. Smiling, Toni kissed his nose again and took his own shirt off. Before he could move again, Romano put his palms against his chest. Toni froze, watching Romano’s face. Eyes heavy, brow slightly furrowed, lips trembling.

            “...Romano...”

            “Shut up. Don’t say anything,” Romano murmured. He leaned forward and put his lips in the center of Toni’s bronze chest, lightly pressed them to his warm flesh. Toni didn’t speak, as he’d been asked. But he felt a tenderness, a pain in his chest that was constricting, suffocating, and he wished that he had the capacities to cry (he couldn’t remember the last time he had cried). So he did the only thing he could think to do. He put his hands in Romano’s hair, brushed the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. Leaned down and gently, softly, in an attempt to physically transmit the intense and overwhelming emotions he was feeling, placed a kiss on Romano’s head. Breathed in and smelled his hair. His shampoo smelled nice. Like spices.

            Romano looked back up at Toni, his eyes still filled with tears—tears that made the pain inside of Toni only grow more burdensome—and then his hands moved down to Toni’s belt. He didn’t need to say anything then. Toni, still cradling Romano’s face, put his lips to Romano’s and pressed his tongue against them. Encouraging him, begging him to open. He did. Toni tasted the inside of his lips, the sweet sensations of his tongue pushing against his. He wanted to go deep, until he lost track of which breath was his and which was Romano’s. He felt the vibrations, heard the gentleness, of Romano’s muffled groans and gasps against his mouth. It made him kiss harder, more desperately. He was closing his eyes tightly and could see colors flashing in the darkness behind his eyes. The taste of Romano was completely and utterly disorienting. It filled him. In every sense.

            Soon Romano had forced Toni’s pants off, had wrapped his arms back around his neck and was pulling him close again. Hot and sweating and struggling for breath (but struggling for more), Toni put his hands up against the door and pushed his hips against Romano’s. Heard him, felt him, moan.

            “Romano,” he said. He couldn’t keep himself from saying it.

            “Ah, bastard...” Romano breathed, leaning his head back and gritting his teeth.

            Toni took the cue and put his tongue against his neck. Felt Romano’s fingers digging into his flesh. He wasn’t entirely sure what Romano wanted—what he needed—but whatever it was, Toni was desperate to give it.

            “Bite me,” he heard Romano whisper.

            “Eh?”

            “Bite me. Bite me hard,” Romano said again through his clenched teeth. Toni glanced up at him, but his eyes were closed and his face was still tilted toward the ceiling. If that was what Romano wanted, Toni told himself, then he would give it to him. He sank his teeth into Romano’s flesh, gently at first. Romano sucked in a breath and tightened his grip, tensed his muscles.

            “Harder.”

            Toni bit him harder. Romano began to cry out, but caught himself—Toni had nearly forgotten that they were still in his office. Surrounded by other offices. Romano bit down again on his lip to keep his voice down. Toni wished they were somewhere else so he could hear it. He didn’t bite hard enough to draw blood, but was worried that he might. He still wasn’t sure how sensitive Romano’s body was. He licked the spot where he had bitten, then slid his tongue down to Romano’s shoulder. He bit it there, as well. He could hear the strain in Romano’s muffled voice, but his cheeks were flushed and Toni felt his erection. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could control himself.

            As his teeth dug into Romano’s skin, he gently moved one hand down onto his erection. Romano sighed a gravelly sigh and Toni heard a light thump as he banged his head against the door. His fingernails were certainly leaving marks on Toni’s skin now. He pushed his hand harder and groaned against Romano’s skin. He was hardly able to control himself, hardly able to sense anything but this raw desire.

            “Come on—ah—already,” Romano breathed. Toni straightened up and looked into Romano’s eyes.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes, I’m sure,” he said impatiently. There was a pout on his bruised lips and he wouldn’t look into Toni’s eyes. Toni hated that.

            “Romano.”

            “What?!”

            Instead of saying anything, Toni brushed the tendrils of matted hair from Romano’s forehead and kissed it. Felt Romano’s caught breath on his neck, tasted the salt of his sweating skin. Romano’s muscles relaxed a bit as he fell back against the door, fingers hovering above the back of Toni’s neck. He kept his lips there, wanting Romano to feel the pressure spread from his forehead down to his heart. Beating like a drum, alive and warm.

            “I’ll do whatever you want,” he murmured against his skin. “ _Lo que quieras...voy a hacerlo. Siempre.”_

Romano tightened his grip and leaned into Toni’s kiss. They stood like that, silently, bathed in each other’s warmth and basking in each other’s breaths. And then, slowly, Romano took one of Toni’s hands and led it to his belt. He didn’t have to say anything. Toni let his open lips hover above Romano’s as he undid his belt. Pushed his pants down. Slipped his hand into Romano’s underwear. Watched his mouth open and his eyelids flicker. Then he lowered his own underwear, lips still grazing Romano’s.

            “Turn me around,” Romano said. Toni did as he asked, stepped back and turning Romano until his cheek and his palms were pressed to the door.

            “Ah, wait.” Toni paused for a moment, then reached over to his desk. He always kept a bottle of lotion for his hands because he absolutely hated the feeling of dry, cracked skin. While it wasn’t ideal, it would work for now. Toni wasn’t so lewd that he kept lube in his office. He squeezed some onto his palms and then he put his forehead to the back of Romano’s neck and kissed that spot, beautiful and innocent, between his shoulder blades.

            “Are you ready?” he asked.

            Romano nodded.

            With one hand, Toni grabbed one of Romano’s legs and lifted it. Then, heart beating and pulse quickening, he went in with his fingers. Covered in the lotion, they slipped in with relative ease. Romano held his breath and was tight, so Toni blew into his ear, whispered his name, to relax him. It worked like a charm.

            “Hurry up and do it,” Romano breathed after a few moments. “I’m ready. I’m fine. Just do it.”

            “Do you want me that badly...?” Toni smiled, bit the outline of Romano’s ear. “ _Lo que quieras.”_

With his hand still holding up Romano’s leg, his other hand on Romano’s hip, Toni eased himself into him. He clenched his teeth as the sensations exploded in his lower body and made their way to every crevice of his skin. Romano clenched his fists against the door and slowly lowered himself down, down, his whimpers muffled, until Toni was completely in. The sweat poured down his face as he began to move, supporting himself with Romano’s body and forcing him harder against the door. His other hand reached around his waist and grabbed his erection as he moved. Romano bit down on his own wrist to muffle the cries he was inevitably emitting.

            “Ngh, Romano,” Toni whispered against his neck, the pressure beginning to build.

            “Toni—bite me,” Romano said again, his voice hardly audible. “Pull my hair.”

            Toni was in too much of a haze to even consider not doing what Romano asked. Even if he were in his right mind...

            Lo que quieras.

            He reached up to the top of Romano’s head, grasped a handful of hair, and pulled it. Forcing Romano’s neck to arch backward, mouth agape as he tried to desperately to hold down his screams. Toni bit the vulnerable flesh of his outstretched neck, dug his nails into Romano’s leg. Began to move faster and harder and deeper. He had to keep himself from being loud, as well. He couldn’t imagine the disaster that would ensue if someone were to hear them. In fact, François was usually in his office at this time.

            This time was different than before. When they had moved unaware of themselves, wrapped in a mist that had left their bodies quivering and their voices raspy. They had moved slowly and sensually, and neither of them could remember the details—but they could remember the feel of the other, the voice of the other, the taste of the other. This time...they were still wrapped in mist, their bodies still quivered, their voices were still raspy. But they were deliberate now. They were aware of every detail with excruciating clarity, moved with an unfamiliar urgency. As if they were trying to solidify that this was real, not in their dreams, but real. They would remember every touch, every whisper in every language, every tremor of pleasure. 

            When it was done, they crumpled to the floor, still entangled in each other, exhausted and trying somehow to catch their breath. Toni, panting, came onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Romano’s slender shoulders and held him as tightly as he possibly could. Romano fell limp against him, his head against Toni’s shoulder. They leaned back against the door and Romano weakly brought his arms up around Toni’s waist. Toni suddenly felt, with that grip against him, as if he were holding a child. Asking without knowing the words for love. He squeezed him harder and put his fingers in Romano’s hair, pressing his head down. Kissed his temple.

            “Oi, bastard—”

            “I’m not letting go yet,” Toni whispered. “I want to hold you longer. _Por favor.”_

“... _Vale.”_

Toni felt Romano’s eyelashes brush his skin, soft and wet. He felt Romano’s tears running down his chest. He kissed his temple again and whispered to him in Spanish. Rocking him back and forth. The more they sat there, and the longer he held him, the tighter Romano’s grip became, and the harder it was for Toni to let go.

 

* * *

 

            Just as before, Romano came to Toni’s office every day (or almost every day). Sometimes he would bring a sample of writing; sometimes he wouldn’t. Toni sacrificed his siesta time, almost all of it, for Romano’s sake. He didn’t mind not being able to take his afternoon nap because as it turned out, Romano’s presence alone—his touch, his scent, his taste—was enough to energize him. Romano would sit in the chair across from him after closing and locking the door. He would avert his gaze and hand over his notebook. Toni would read his work, then reach forward and grab his hand and kiss his knuckles. Suck lightly on his fingertips. Romano’s cheeks would become flustered and he would begin to stumble over his words and soon they would find themselves on the floor, on the table, at the windowsill, against the wall. With their confessions they had released their inhibitions and any semblance of self-control they had had before.

            But more than Toni loved to touch him, Toni loved to simply look at him. Watch the slightest changes of his expressions. See the way that he always sat on his hands when he was nervous, or the way he bit his lip, or how he looked at the ground with his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Sometimes, when Toni saw bags under his eyes and gauntness in his cheeks, he would again force Romano to nap on his windowsill. At those moments, he was more beautiful than ever. Spread out against the window, arm above his head, staring at Toni before he inevitably fell asleep. Toni would bring himself to the window and kneel beside it and brush his fingers through Romano’s hair. Would say soft Spanish words that helped him fall asleep. You are beautiful, You are wonderful, _Lo que quieras._

            But, as Toni learned rather quickly, Romano had dramatic mood swings. This is not to say that he hadn’t noticed them before—he certainly had. But with this change in their relationship they became much more evident and pronounced. Some days Romano would come into the office tired and gentle, without much energy for anything but the kisses he gave. Other days he would come into the office a raging storm, angry and frustrated and attacking each and every word Toni said. Refusing to be touched, curling into himself and telling Toni to leave him alone. Call him a bastard, a son of a bitch, Sicilian or Italian insults that Toni could not understand. But still sitting in his office. Toni did not get frustrated or upset with Romano; he always found himself drawn back to that night, that image of Romano on the ledge. Staring out over the darkness of the campus and speaking with the darkness in his mind. He was patient and gentle with Romano, made every effort to make him comfortable regardless of his mood. He started keeping cherry tomatoes in his office because he discovered Romano’s undying love for tomatoes, not dissimilar to his own. When Romano didn’t want to be touched, Toni did not touch him. But he spoke to him in a soft, tender tone—of stories from around the world, the different sights he’d seen and the different people he’d met. It always seemed to calm Romano down. Sometimes during his visits they wouldn’t touch at all, but Toni never minded.

            He was secretly hoping that one day, Romano might give in and let him call him Lovino.

            In the evenings, Toni would have dinner or drinks with Gilbert and François. He did not tell them about his relationship with Romano—he did not tell anybody. He found himself drinking a lot, savoring their company because it helped him relax and destress and not think about anything. They would run around the town, thirty-somethings who were generally drunk and completely unprofessional. Other times they would sit over a cup of tea in a nice English restaurant and talk about intellectual things that professors tend to talk about.

            Toni didn’t realize the toll that his relationship was taking on him, even from the very beginning. He didn’t realize the toll it was taking on Romano, either.

            On Friday nights, Toni would cook dinner at his home and Romano would bring Sicilian wine and they would spend the night together, listening to Juanjo Dominguez and reading poetry and rolling around in the sheets. Toni realized that he wanted nothing more than to see Romano’s face, feel his body beside him, when he woke up every morning. He would open his eyes and see Romano’s face watching him, pull him in closer and entwine their legs and hold him. _Buenos días,_ he would say. _Bon jornu_ , Romano would reply softly. They enjoyed speaking to each other in different languages. Toni found that he soon knew more Sicilian than Italian (as it turned out, the two were fairly different, and Romano spoke Sicilian much more often). Toni revealed to Romano after a few days that he was fluent in Arabic as well, and Romano delighted in it. Toni was much more fluent in the conversational Arabic, so while Romano taught him Sicilian, Toni taught Romano more Arabic.

           

* * *

 

            It was a Thursday afternoon, three weeks after that day in Toni’s office. He was at his desk, grading papers, and Romano was spread out at the window. Laying on his side, leaning his head down against his arm. He was silently watching Toni, wearing his ripped jeans and his black t-shirt and his thick gray socks. Toni was trying not to look over at him, in his perhaps unintentionally alluring and sensual pose. He needed to get these papers finished. Romano always distracted him from these things, sometimes on purpose and sometimes on accident. The silence in the room was warm, broken by the tapping of Toni’s pen against the desk and Romano’s slow breathing.

            “Toooooniiiiiiiiiiiii,” he cooed, his voice high-pitched.

            “ _Dime, mi tesoro.”_

“ _¿Dónde están los tomates? Tengo hambre.”_

            His mouth twisting into a crooked smile, he leaned his arm back over the chair and finally turned to look at Romano. Because he knew that Romano didn’t actually care much about the tomatoes—he had just grown impatient with Toni’s lack of attention.

            _“No los tengo. Los comiste.”_

_“Mentiroso,”_ Romano pouted.

            When Toni’s gaze fell upon him there, he felt the breath stolen from his open lips and his heart stopped in its tracks. He took his glasses off and smiled again. Even through the closed blinds, sunlight was pouring in, bathing Romano’s silhouette and accentuating the details of his body, the soft expression of his face, the freckles on his arms and the yellowness of his teeth and the uneven cut of his fingernails and that one strand of hair that he could never get to behave. Romano was squinting from the light, his arm stretched out over his head, his toes wiggling in his socks. He looked serene. Tranquil, natural, as if he were meant to be there. As if Toni were meant to look at him. So unfairly beautiful.

            _“No te mentiría nunca, Romano, neno,”_ he said quietly. He saw the edges of Romano’s lips twitch, just slightly upwards. Saw the red of his cheeks brightened by the golden rays. Romano closed his eyes for a moment, and Toni held his breath.

            “Romano, can I ask you a question?”

            “Hmm.”

            “Can I write about you?”

            Romano slowly opened his eyes. They were glistening so brightly.

            “You want to write about _me?”_

            Toni nodded. He felt the writer’s block lifting, felt rejuvenation in his bones. He recalled from a few weeks ago the strange conversation he had had with President Kirkland and the young American boy, Alfred.

            _“How ‘bout a muse? That’s what it’s called, right? Something that inspires you?”_

            He reached his hand out, and Romano stared at it for a few moments. Then he reached his hand out and put it in Toni’s palm. Toni stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, felt his dry knuckles and the warmth seeping through him from the sun.

            “Do what you want. But why do you want to write about me, of all things? There are lots of other, better things to write about,” Romano said softly. Eyes on Toni’s hand over his. “More exciting and beautiful things. I’m not special.”

            “No. You are my muse, _querido_. _Mi inspiración.”_

He brought Romano’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

            And then he saw Romano smile. A genuine smile that he wasn’t sure he’d seen before—the type of smile that made his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. He kissed his hand again and squeezed, wishing that Romano would never step out from that sunlit window and never stop smiling just like that.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ಠ_ಥ

**12**

**Spaghetti and Tears**

When Feliciano was on edge, he liked to cook pasta and listen to opera.

So that was what he did. His face scrunched up into an expression of disillusion, his hands moving rapidly in agitation, his apron tied a little too tightly around his waist, he moved like a storm through the small kitchen in the dorm building. The only things that were keeping his sanity in check were the sound of Pavarotti’s voice and Ludwig’s presence. He was sitting at the table, writing an essay for his military history class. Feliciano dropped the spaghetti into the pot of boiling water and began chopping onions and tomatoes.

“What’s on your mind?” Ludwig asked, without taking his eyes from the computer screen.

“Oh, I shouldn’t bother you with this,” Feliciano sighed. “You seem so busy.”

“It’s fine. I am a good multitasker.”

“Well...” Feliciano paused, letting the knife fall against the table. He was nearly shaking he was so upset—so confused—so utterly lost. “It’s Lovi.”

Feliciano wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting when he’d arrived here. He knew that Lovino would be different (very different) than the last time they’d seen each other, a few weeks before Nonno’s death. But he certainly hadn’t expected to be at a complete loss as to what to do. He wanted so badly to be his brother’s best friend again. To relive those days they had passed together in the sunny streets of Rome. Even after Lovino had moved to Sicily, the time they had spent when Feliciano went to visit contained some of the best memories he had. It seemed now that Lovino was a completely different person.

Though Feliciano couldn’t very well blame him.

He just wanted desperately to see him smile again. He wanted Lovino to let him back into his heart so that he could hold it in his hands, mend its scars, return the missing parts he had left behind when he’d gone to Sicily and then to Spain. But even as Lovino reached out to him and held his hand and talked to him and went wherever he wanted...he was closed off. Especially in the past few weeks. It left Feliciano frustrated and angry with himself for having abandoned his brother for all those years.

“What about him?” Ludwig asked. Feliciano knew that Ludwig didn’t like Lovino. But he liked Feliciano enough to at least listen.

“I don’t know how to help him.”

“Does he need help?”

“Are you really asking me that?! Haven’t you seen him?” Feliciano cried, throwing his hands in the air. “You’ve seen him! You’ve seen his mood swings, and how sometimes he won’t get out of bed for days at a time...” 

“Maybe he’s tired.”

“Luuuuuddwwwiiiiiggggg!” Feliciano crooned.

“Ah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I missed him so much, you know? We haven’t seen each other in six years. I was so excited to see him again, and...”

“And what?”

Feliciano wasn’t entirely sure how to put it into words.

“I know he’s happy to see me. And I know it means a lot to him that I’m here,” he began. “I can tell by the way he hugs me. And how he only really listens to me—you know, when he goes through his ruts and he stays in bed for days, I’m the only one who can get him out. But then other times he won’t answer my phone calls and he won’t open the door for me, or he’ll call me in the middle of the night saying that he wants to jump off of the ledge by the social science building, and it really scares me. But it seems like no matter how many times I tell him I love him and I care about him he doesn’t believe me.”

“Feliciano.”

“ _ Si?” _

__ __ “I think this is taking a toll on you,” Ludwig said gently. Feliciano stared in silence at his half-chopped tomato. “Don’t blame yourself for his problems.”

“Don’t talk that way about him,” Feliciano whispered. “Like he’s just a problem.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“No, I know.” The tears streamed silently down his cheeks. “It’s not his fault, though.”

“I know.”

“It’s not. It’s really not.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I just wish he wouldn’t shut me out,” Feliciano said, and his words were caught in his throat. He began desperately wiping his tears with the back of his sleeve. “I...I missed him so much. But now that we’re together I don’t know what to do.”

“Ah, ple...please don’t cry...”

He closed his eyes and saw the smiling face of his brother as it had been, bright and beaming and beautiful, twelve years ago. When they had been together. When they had held hands and sung songs and Feliciano had played piano for him and drawn for him. And then the face disappeared, and he saw his brother’s current face. Constantly tear-stained, pouting, dark and brooding with hooded eyes that were once bright with a thirst for knowledge and a love for his little brother. Feliciano’s shoulders began to shake.

“And, you know, it’s gotten even  _ worse _ lately,” he said. “Ever since he went to dinner at his professor’s house two weeks ago. His mood swings are really more dramatic now. Sometimes he’s himself. It’s so much fun when we have breakfast and lunch and dinner together and we talk and I can see him smile, or he gets grumpy and yells at you—at least then he shows emotion. He’s always been a little bit grumpy anyway. But other times there’s nothing there. It’s like he’s...it’s like he’s hollow. I wish he would reach out to me. I’m his brother.”

“What exactly happened between you two?”

“Nothing happened between  _ us _ ,” Feliciano replied. He took a quick glance at the pasta. “You know that we’re half-brothers. When he was seven he was sent away to live with his mother’s family in Sicily. We’ve been separated since.”

“But when you first saw him, you said you hadn’t seen each other only for six years.”

“I used to visit him in Sicily. But when he was thirteen, Papa sent him to boarding school in Spain and I wasn’t allowed to go see him. And then he came here.”

“Ah...”

Feliciano didn’t want to tell him any more than that. The rest was dark and they were Lovino’s secrets, anyway. It wasn’t Feliciano’s place to divulge them, especially to someone he knew Lovino didn’t particularly like (though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why). But he figured Ludwig was smart enough to infer that there was something much deeper, much more sinister, to the story.

“Do you want to hear something funny?” Feliciano asked with a laugh. A dry, empty laugh. “I was there when Nonno died. I was holding his hand and crying at his bedside. I knew he was going to die and I was trying to be strong, but I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t want to be alone. I was only twelve.”

“I...I’m sorry.”

“He knew he was going to die, too. He squeezed my hand and he smiled at me. He had a very contagious smile. He said something that confused me, then, before he died. It makes more sense now, I guess, but at the time I was completely bewildered.”

Feliciano paused, smiled, to regain his composure. He found that smiling even when he wasn’t happy helped him at least pretend that he was okay.

“He said, ‘Feliciano, I know you are the younger brother. But you have to look after Lovino—he needs you to take care of him. Be kind to him and be patient with him. Look after little Lovi. Promise you’ll look after your brother for me.’”

They both fell silent for a few minutes, letting Pavarotti’s singing permeate the air.

“Of course I promised,” Feliciano said. He smiled more widely so that his voice wouldn’t break. “Of course I promised. But I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.”

“I think you’re doing what you can,” Ludwig said. Feliciano, still smiling his shaky, unconvincing smile, reached forward and put his hand over Ludwig’s on the table. Ludwig smiled back. “You are very kind.”

“I wish he would talk to me. I miss him.”

“I know...”

“Sometimes I don’t even know where he is.”

“Actually, Feliciano, I know something that might help in that regard.”

“Oh?”

“My uncle is a professor here. Apparently, he’s good friends with the same professor that Lovino was talking about. The one who made him dinner.”

“The Spanish one?”

“ _ Ja. _ And I heard him saying once that lately, Lovino is at his office a lot. So maybe you could ask the professor about him.”

“Lovi? At his professor’s office?” Feliciano furrowed his brow. “That strikes me as strange...but maybe I should talk to him.”

“Do what you want with that information.”

“Okay.  _ Grazie _ , Ludwig.”

“ _ Bitte.” _

__ __ Feliciano wasn’t sure if he’d be able to gather the courage to talk to Lovino’s professor about him, and he hadn’t thought about it before, but it seemed to make sense. Lovino was a second-year here and it wouldn’t have been all that surprising if the professors, especially ones that had taken a liking to him like the Spanish one, knew something about him that Feliciano didn’t.

“I’m scared for him,” Feliciano said quietly. The pasta was almost ready. “I’m scared that he’s going to lose himself completely. I don’t want that to happen to my  _ fratellone.” _

__ __ “I’m sure everything will turn out fine.”

“You really think so?”

“ _ Ja.” _

__ __ Feliciano wiped the remainder of his tears and felt a terrible ache in his heart. A desperate, sad desire to be there for a brother who seemed as if he didn’t want anybody to be there at all. But if Feliciano couldn’t take care of him, he would be breaking his promise to Nonno. And he would be letting Lovino fall prey to the demons that had been growing within him for years.

He decided that the problem was not Lovino. It couldn’t be. That wouldn’t be fair.

Feliciano just needed to try harder.

__ __ “Thank you for listening to me ramble, Ludwig. You are a very good friend.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want some spaghetti? I make really good spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti sounds lovely.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know less German than I do even Italian so 
> 
> Es tut mir Leid
> 
> ich liebe dich


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ

**13**

**Why Don’t You Scream at Me, Signor?**

            _There is one boy._

_Alone._

_Not physically. He is surrounded by other people. He is in a small, expensive private boarding school in Granada, a beautiful city that has managed to burrow its way into his heart. It is breathtaking and the people are exciting and alluring and he hears so many languages. For in the past few years, wrapped in his loneliness and with so little else to do, he has taken solace in teaching himself the art of language. One hobby that doesn’t need any talent that he lacks. He merely has to sit and learn—he needs no skills. He has no skills, after all. And here in this place there are so many languages to speak and so many exciting places to go._

_But he very often does not leave his room because his stomach hurts and he feels nauseated, and he is going insane with the desire to see his younger brother._

_He has been in this city for two years now, and has not seen his brother once. He tries to write letters to him, but he receives none in return. Of no fault of his brother, he is sure. He wants his brother to play piano for him again, or paint him something again (the paintings he does have he has hanging in his room), so that he can say,_ Bellissimo _. Kiss him on the forehead. He is starting to forget what his younger brother smells like and what his younger brother sounds like and what his younger brother’s smile looks like, what it feels like. He must be much bigger now—he is 14 now, and the older brother wants to see him all grown up. He misses his Nonno, as well. Misses his scent and his old, raspy voice when he told stories and assured him, eyes glistening with age and wisdom, that he was loved._

_For a moment, he had almost believed him._

_He thinks about his mother very often now, too. Since he cannot sleep, he has taken it upon himself to dig through the labyrinth of his memory and attempt to dig up the lost treasures there. He cannot remember much of her, but his life in Sicily has helped him remember at least a little bit. He has images of her, brushing his hair from his face and whispering in his ear and singing Spanish lullabies to him. Lovely Spanish lullabies, but he can’t remember their lyrics. He tries desperately to remember them. He has searched for them. But they must come from a very specific place, shrouded in mystery and ancient wonders, so he cannot find the lullabies. But he writes down everything that he can remember in fear that he might forget again. He makes a habit of keeping a journal, of writing when the voices in his head spring up and when he needs someone to talk to but there is nobody to listen._

_Ink listens. Paper listens. His pen listens._

_He sits in his room because he is not allowed to leave. He has gotten into trouble again. Another child said something, about Sicilians, and the boy hit him. Relentlessly, without hesitation, in the middle of the classroom. And he yelled at the teacher when he tried to break them apart. Now he is sitting in his room with a band aid on his bruised head and he knows that they think he is crazy._

_He thinks he is crazy, too._

_They are forcing him to see someone. Someone who is supposed to help him and give him medication to calm him down._

_He doesn’t want to, because he’s become content with speaking with the voices in his head. If they leave, he’s worried that he won’t have anybody else to talk to at all. He talks to his brother sometimes, wondering if he can hear him all the way in Rome. Ti amo, he tells him, forcing himself back into his Roman accent. Ti amo molto, fratellino._

_Sometimes he even pretends that he can hear his brother respond._

Ti amo, fratellone.

 

* * *

 

            When Romano wasn’t at Toni’s office, he was in his room. When he wasn’t in his room, he was in his secret haven. He went to his secret haven and lay in the grass and stared up at the sky when he didn’t want Feliciano to find him. Feliciano knew where it was, but he also knew not to follow Romano when he came here. Sometimes being around Feliciano was too much for his heart to handle. He found himself feeling very frightened that if he spent too much time with him, Feli would soon grow tired of his antics and throw him away, just as everyone else had. He was afraid that even his own brother would abandon him if he stayed too close, so he forced some distance between them. Feliciano often protested to the point of tears—I’m here to help you, don’t push me away like this, please, Lovi. And then Romano would feel guilty but at a complete loss as to how to rectify the situation. So he would sit alone beneath the tree, even in the chilly autumn air when the grass was wet and the sky was gray, and hate himself for leaving his brother by himself.

            _But he’s not by himself._

_He has other friends._

_Other people who love him._

_He doesn’t really need me, in the end._

_He doesn’t need me at all._

But still, Romano was comforted when Feliciano was with him. Smiled at him and teased him and pinched his cheeks.

            Feli painted for him.

            And sometimes he would drag Romano to the piano rooms with him, so that he could sit and listen. He still had an entire binder full of sheet music that he used to play when he was younger—pieces that even Romano remembered him playing. So he would go listen to Feliciano practice and inevitably fall into a fit of hysterics, forcing Feliciano to stop his playing and rush to his side.

            _What a terrible brother I am._

Romano trusted his brother and felt comforted in his presence, but he still couldn’t bring himself to tell Feli of his relationship with Toni. He couldn’t tell anyone. This relationship put more at stake than just his sanity. At times, when he thought about it, he would accuse his heart and his mind of playing tricks on him—there’s no way this can be true, he said to himself. There’s no way that somebody likes me enough to keep me around as much as he does, likes me enough to tell me I’m beautiful and play with my hair, likes me enough to cook dinner for me and kiss me and buy me cherry tomatoes.

            _Why does he keep me around?_

_I’m terrible to him._

_I’m terrible to him._

_I’m really, really terrible to him._

Romano pulled out his notebook and tried to write. Tried to write anything. The voices were loud and he needed a way to silence them, but when he put his pen against the page, there was nothing there to write. He felt empty and hollow, like the things inside of him that inspired his writing had run away. Off to a distant abyss in his mind that he couldn’t reach just yet. His hand was shaking. He tried to write in Italian—then in Spanish—then in English—then in Arabic. But he couldn’t write more than a single sentence in any language. He gripped the pen so hard that it left an indent in his sweaty palm. Suddenly overcome with frustration, unable to do the one thing that was his and his alone, unable to do the one thing that would calm his beating heart, he threw his notebook as far as he could and grasped at his hair.

            _I can’t do anything right._

“Hey, you’re Kiku’s roommate...right?”

            He heard a voice behind him and whirled around to see a young man, his own age, walking across the path with his hands in his pockets and a curious look on his face.

            “You...”

            “Hey, it is you! Sup, brah.”

            On his list of people that he did not want to see, Alfred Jones was very high. He reached his hand out for a fist bump, but Romano ignored it.

            “What do _you_ want?” he grumbled.

            “Nothin’. Was just passin’ through. I like this place, it’s real nice. It helps clear my thoughts. Betcha feel the same way,” Alfred smiled.

            Romano knew that Alfred wasn’t dumb enough to not notice Romano’s hostility—Alfred was not as oblivious and tactless as he would have had people believe. He was at this school, after all. And more than that, everyone knew that he was at the top of the class. But it seemed he didn’t care. Hands still in his pockets, he walked over and stood beside Romano. Romano hugged his knees to his chest and stared forward. He didn’t like Alfred, and he certainly did not want him here at this moment when his thoughts were so jumbled he couldn’t separate them, his heart beating so quickly he felt he was going to burst, the voices in his head so loud he might have gone deaf.

            “Oh, that yours?”

            Alfred walked over to where Romano had thrown his notebook, bent down, and picked it up. Perhaps in another state of mind Romano would have jumped at him, stolen the book back, told Alfred to get lost. But he didn’t have the energy just then, so he watched heavily.

            “Nice notebook, dude. Ooh, made in Sicily. Never been, but I’ve heard it’s great.”

            Alfred, notebook still in hand, took a seat beside Romano and stretched his legs out.

            “What do ya write in here?” he asked.

            “Lots of bullshit,” Romano said under his breath.

            “Sounds cool. Mind if I take a look?”

            “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

            “Sweet.”

            He opened the notebook and fell silent. Flipped through the pages while Romano questioned his own sanity, wondering how on earth he was letting Alfred Jones look through the notebook that he wouldn’t even let his own brother read. Perhaps it was because of his nonchalance, his starry eyes, the earnestness in his loud American voice. Romano did not like Alfred in the slightest.

            “Damn,” he breathed. Turned a page. Romano watched him from the corner of his eye and heard his heart thump in his ears. “You’re good. This is some Hemingway level shit.”

            “You understand Italian?” Romano suddenly asked. Most of his writing was either in Italian or Spanish. He wrote in English when he was feeling particularly angry or upset, and in Arabic when nothing else worked.

            “Sure. It wasn’t so hard to learn after Spanish,” Alfred grinned. What a typical American, Romano thought with distaste. “Oh, but I don’t know Arabic. That shit’s hard, dude. So why’d ya write all this?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “It’s really good.”

            “Whatever.”

            Alfred paused, stared at the notebook for a few moments, then handed it back to Romano and leaned back on the grass. He closed his eyes, took off his glasses, and let his lips turn into a soft smile. Romano watched him silently.

            “Nice place to relax, huh?” he said. “Betcha have a lot on your mind.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “Just the fact that you’re here. The only reason people would sit here and stare at nothin’ is cuz they’re tryin’ real hard to think about something. Know what I mean?”

            “Does that mean _you_ have a lot on your mind? Because that seems hard to believe.”

            Alfred opened one eye and grinned, very aware of the quiet insult he had just been given.

            “For your information, yes, I do have a lot on my mind,” he said. “I am in some fucked up situations, Romano, my friend.”

            “I suppose that’s one thing we have in common.”

            “Hey, lemme ask you somethin’. Have you ever wanted to do anything that you know is really stupid, and just a terrible idea, but you do it anyway?”

            “That seems like more of an American thing to do, to be honest.”

            “Oh, don’t be like that!” Alfred laughed. “You know what I mean. Like, you know it would be bad and lead to lots of shitty things happening, but you really don’t know what else to do?”

            Romano was frightened then that Alfred might be able to read minds, too. Americans were very scary.

            “Anyway, guess I’m just ramblin’ now.” Alfred turned and looked straight at Romano. “Know what I mean?”

            Romano nodded and hugged his knees tighter.

            “Ya know what else? I think it’s okay to do things like that,” Alfred shrugged.

            “Probably another American thing. You all do what you want without thinking about the consequences.”

            “Yeah, you’re probably right. But still...” He was quiet for a few moments. “I think it’s okay to make bad decisions. Even if you know they’re bad. Like, when your brain says one thing and your heart says another? I think it’s okay to listen to your heart.”

            “Why are you telling me these things?” Romano hissed.

            “Just shootin’ the breeze, man. Usually I talk to that tree over there. She’s a great listener. But you happen to be here, so you get to hear my ramblin’.” Alfred smiled then, showing his very white and very perfect teeth. Sickeningly perfect. “You’re a pretty good listener, too. So, got any advice for me?”

            “Huh?”

            “You know. The tree can’t give me advice. Maybe you can give me advice. What do ya think? Is it okay to make bad decisions?”

            “Only if you’re insane,” he murmured. “Hearts are stinking, lying bastards, so it’s always a bad idea to listen to them. But if you’re insane then you have an excuse.”

            “Hmm. Guess I’m insane, then.” Alfred checked his wristwatch, then jumped up and ruffled Romano’s hair. “Anyway, thanks for listening, dude. Sorry for interrupting your alone time with the tree. Catch ya later. Good luck with whatever you’re thinkin’ about.”

            And then Alfred was gone and Romano was very confused, amazed that there was someone who actually believed that following the heart was a good idea.

 

* * *

 

            When Romano knocked on Toni’s door that Friday evening, the tears were already threatening to spill from his eyes, and he could hardly believe that he was about to break so soon. He was filled with inexplicable frustration and he wasn’t sure why he was even there. He would have much preferred to stay in bed, staring in anger and useless rage at the walls. Yet here he was, waiting for the door to open. To be hit with the smell of cooking that always seemed to permeate Toni’s house, to be washed by waves of guitar music, to see the Spanish flag and the photographs and the piles and piles of books.

            Toni opened the door with a smile and an apron. There was tomato sauce on his cheek and his hair was pinned back with a slim headband. It was the way he always did his hair when he cooked because he was loathe to allow even a single speck of dust to soil his dishes.

            “Ah, _querido_ , perfect timing. Dinner is almost ready.”

            Toni leaned forward to place kisses on Romano’s cheeks in greeting but, despite himself, Romano cringed and turned his face away. Toni froze where he was, then withdrew with a smile.

            _Why does he always smile at me like that?_

_It’s irritating._

Romano went inside and sat on the sofa without a word while Toni retreated to the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations. (On better days, Romano would go into the kitchen and pester him and lick the spoons.) Romano again asked himself why he was there in the first place. Wouldn’t it have been better to be upset alone, instead of dragging his harsh mood and cloudy skies into Toni’s house? Forcing him to deal with this anguished, desolate boy that clung to him like a bear cub to its mother? Of course, this wasn’t the first time Romano had done this. Perhaps Toni was just used to it.

            _But why does he put up with it at all?_

When they sat down to dinner, Romano ate in silence. Toni talked. He talked about his week, about his writing, about the people he’d met, about Professor Bonnefoy and Professor Beilschmidt, about new sights he’d seen. He told Romano stories from his home in Madrid. While Romano chewed, swallowed, occasionally met his eyes. It would have been evident to even the most oblivious person that he was trying very hard not to cry, and Toni knew it as well—but Toni had become very good at ignoring that fact because he knew that Romano didn’t like him pointing it out.

            After dinner was finished, Romano went into the bedroom and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the bed. Toni followed him inside with his notebook and his glasses on top of his head, and he sat down on the bed. Romano buried his face against his legs so that Toni wouldn’t be able to see the tears. Tears that, if asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain.

            “Will you let me write about you, my beautiful little muse?”

“I already told you to do what you want, bastard.”

            Toni did not touch him, as he sometimes did when Romano was not in his moods. If he had tried, Romano would have swatted his hand anyway and burst into a tantrum of insults and obscenities.

            _Why does he let me come to his house, take up his space, like this?_

_I don’t even talk to him._

_I just eat his food and sit on his floor._

_Why does he allow it?_

Romano couldn’t understand Toni in the slightest. Couldn’t understand why he subjected himself to the torrents of pain and degradation that Romano threw at him—could not control. Certainly the times when Romano was kind and spoke to him and touched him were not pleasurable enough to warrant this pain.

            _I don’t understand you, Toni._

_I don’t understand you one bit._

Suddenly Romano was crying. He had been trying to resist, but it was futile now. The tears were flowing and he was hugging himself and trembling as he tried to hold his voice down. He heard shuffling on the bed and, after a few moments, felt a hand touch his shoulder. A terrible wave of fear and pain crashed into him.

            “Get off! Get off me!” he heard himself scream. _“_ _Làssami jiri!”_

            The hand withdrew.

            “Romano,” Toni whispered. The sound of his name made him cry harder. “ _Pobrecito...”_

“Don’t touch me,” Romano said, his voice muffled. “Don’t touch me, stupid Spaniard.”

            “I won’t touch you,” Toni said. His voice was still soft and tender and Romano hated that. “ _Lo que quieras.”_

_Why does he always say that?_

_Why does he always put up with me?_

_Why doesn’t he yell at me and scream at me and get upset like a normal person?_

_Why don’t you scream at me?_

_¿Por qué no me gritas, Toni?_

“I won’t touch you. But will you let me sing to you?” Toni asked. Romano paused for a moment. It was the first time Toni had asked him that. “Singing helps calm me down. Perhaps it will help you, _cariño.”_

Romano was silent. Granting Toni permission.

            Toni came up to the edge of the bed, behind the spot where Romano was sitting. The house was silent but for his sniffles and heavy breaths. His body was close, and Romano could sense its warmth, but Toni did not touch him. As he’d asked. Then, the silence was broken by a low, smooth voice beginning to sing. Milky, clouded Spanish filled Romano’s mind. A soft melody, a tune that took him into its embrace. He closed his eyes and felt his muscles beginning to relax. His teeth stopped their clenching, his fists released, his breathing gradually returned to normal. Toni’s voice spread throughout his bones as he sang. It was a lullaby, rocking him to sleep—or at least, some semblance of sanity. Some semblance of tranquility.

            Romano recognized the lullaby. He had heard it before.

            He stopped crying, but the tears did not stop flowing.

            With the familiarity of the lullaby came a numb sweetness, akin to a naïve happiness, wrapping its arms around him. He felt calm. He felt such overflowing compassion and affection that he couldn’t recognize it at first. Couldn’t identify the strong feelings building up within him as he focused so completely on the sound of Toni’s voice. The way it rocked him, held him, warmed the very marrow of his limbs.

            Before Romano could understand what he himself was doing, he had turned around. He was on his knees, reaching desperately for Toni’s waist. Toni held him, put his fingers in his hair, ran his hand along his back while Romano’s tears soaked his shirt. He continued to sing while Romano clenched at him, buried his face as deeply as he could against him. To smell him, breathe him in, get so close that he could neither feel nor see anything else. He felt Toni put his lips to his head and he hugged him more tightly.

            “ _No te detengas,”_ Romano begged. “ _Por favor.”_

_“Lo que quieras. Mi querido, mi tesoro, Romano.”_


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big shout out to all you lovely people who continue to make this story worth writing and posting. 
> 
> you all inspire me to be a better writer every single day. 
> 
> me alegro mucho que les guste mi historia, y ojalá que continuen disfrutarla <3 
> 
> les quiero tanto queridos
> 
> que les disfruten y tengan un día maravilloso

**14**

**Let’s Leave, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

            Toni opened his eyes slowly. His eyelids were heavy and he felt as if his limbs were paralyzed with sheer exhaustion. Though it was not a burdensome exhaustion. As a writer, he was very aware of the distinctions between various types of exhaustion. There was the exhaustion written on one’s face in dark bags and wrinkles, the cause of which was most likely a night sitting in front of a laptop or notebook and ultimately coming up with nothing of substance. Then there was the exhaustion written on one’s face in a bright sleepiness and a satisfied smile, the cause of which was most likely a night sitting in front of a laptop or notebook and writing so much that one’s heart had burst and left them unable to sleep. Then, of course, there was the incomparable, wondrous exhaustion after having spent a night with a lover.

            This was the exhaustion Toni felt. His entire body was warm and tingling beneath the covers of his bed, and he couldn’t keep the smile from twisting the corners of his lips up. He forced his eyes to open, because he knew what he was going to find. On the bed next to him, he saw Romano. He, too, was huddled beneath the covers, his small frame curling and his dark hair flattened against the pillow. His back was to Toni, his fingers clutching at the blanket. Toni knew without having to check that Romano was not asleep. Romano hardly slept. But just the image of him lying there, comfortable in Toni’s bed, was enough to make his heart constrict, as if bound tightly by the strings of Romano’s fingers. Inching forward, sluggish with the remains of his deep and content slumber, Toni wrapped his arms around Romano’s waist and pulled him closer. He didn’t have much strength after only just waking up, but Romano made it easy. He let himself be pulled back and turned gently over his shoulder.

            Toni placed a single kiss on the back of his shoulder. Then he buried his face against Romano’s neck and hugged him more tightly.

            “ _Mm...Buenos días, Roma.”_

_“Bon jornu.”_ His voice was low and raspy, but it was there, and that was enough. Toni inhaled as deeply as he could and moved closer until his nose was crushed against Romano’s skin and their legs were entwined beneath the sheets. He felt Romano’s fingers move on top of his own, felt his lips brush the top of his head. Toni stayed like that for a long time, unable to bring himself to let go. To release himself from this bliss, from the warm, stale air that surrounded his lover.

            After Toni had had his fill, he gently slipped out of bed, being careful not to move the covers. He knew that it was early—perhaps around six or seven. He had trained his body to wake up this early every single day, because he liked to have a nice shower, a cup of coffee and breakfast, and read or write before work every day. But, of course, he had to have his daily siestas to compensate. Romano remained in bed, tightening his grip on the covers and curling further into himself to make up for the warmth lost when Toni had gotten out of bed. The room was dark, save for the slivers of sunlight trying to break through the drawn curtains. Though the darkness made him still more sleepy, Toni did not pull them back, because he knew that Romano preferred the darkness. Even if he wasn’t sleeping, Romano enjoyed very much laying in bed and contemplating the world around him, contemplating his thoughts, contemplating whatever it was Romano liked to contemplate. So Toni let him be.

            After his shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and put on his slippers and went into the kitchen to prepare his coffee. He found himself nauseated at the mere thought of food, so he didn’t bother preparing breakfast, especially knowing that Romano wouldn’t eat it. He put a little bit of extra sugar into it, then walked back to the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. Romano’s face was mostly hidden under the covers, but his lidded eyes were on Toni. Toni smiled and threw him a wink. Furrowing his eyebrows, dappled in the fragmented morning sunrise, Romano tapped the empty side of the bed wordlessly. Knowing that Toni would understand.

            He obediently walked to the bed and sat down beside Romano, being careful not to spill his coffee. Romano moved closer until his slender arm brushed Toni’s bare leg, and Toni put a hand into Romano’s hair. Like a cat, or a tired child, Romano grasped at Toni.

            “Roma, do you want some coffee?” he asked.

            “You have your coffee too dark.”

            “I put extra sugar in.”

            Silent, Romano sat up a little bit and put his hands out. Toni handed him the coffee with a smile and watched him take a sip. While he drank in silence and leaned against him, Toni grabbed the notebook and pen he kept on his nightstand and opened to the nearest blank page and began to write. When he glanced over at Romano, at his muse, looking for the inspiration, the fuel to keep his fire going, Romano was looking at the window. Staring at its blinds. holding the cup of coffee. Toni wrote down everything about him. The curl of his lips when he stared at the light, the shape of his tongue when he sipped the coffee, the paleness of his knuckles as they wrapped around the mug, the shapes that his legs created beneath the covers, the curve of his shoulders.

            “What are you writing?” he asked, after Toni had nearly filled an entire two pages. Just with Romano.

            “I’m writing about how you drink coffee,” Toni said. Romano, a confused expression on his face, looked down at the notebook.

            “Why? There’s nothing special about that.”

            “Of course there is. You’re beautiful when you drink coffee.”

            “You’re so full of shit, Toni.”

            “ _Tal vez.”_

Toni leaned forward and kissed Romano’s bashful, tightly smiling lips. They tasted like sunlight and coffee. Romano let himself be kissed and continued to smile. Toni could feel it.

            “I’ll never understand why you write about me,” he said after Toni had pulled away. He was staring down into the depleted contents of the mug, swirling it around, while Toni let his pen fly.

            “What can’t you understand?”

            “I’m just...I can’t understand why you don’t write about something more exciting. Something more beautiful, more inspirational. I’m not much of a muse.”

            “The writer decides their muse, no?” Toni replied. “You don’t have much say in the matter, I think. A muse is whatever the _writer_ finds beautiful.”

            “Sure, but—”

            “You are beautiful. You are enchanting. You have captured my heart in those eyes, those lips, those breaths of yours, Romano Vargas _._ ”

            He was met with silence, so he looked up. Romano was staring at him with his lips parted, his eyes wide, his frame completely still. Astonished into silence. Toni smiled at him and brushed his cheek with his thumb.

            “Please don’t look so surprised,” he said quietly.

            “Then don’t say things like that so suddenly, bastard,” Romano mumbled, turning his red cheeks away. Toni kissed him again on the temple and continued to write.

            When Romano was finished with the coffee, he put it on the nightstand and grabbed Toni’s arm (interrupting his writing) and put it around his own shoulder. Then he curled up against Toni’s body and took a deep breath.

            “You look tired, _neno.”_

“That’s because I am tired.”

            “Try to sleep.”

            “You know I can’t.”

            Toni let his thumb traverse Romano’s skin. From his lips to his jaw to his shoulder down along his abdomen. Let it be squeezed by Romano’s fingers.

            “Do you want another cup of coffee?”

            Romano shook his head.

            “I have tomatoes. Do you want some?”

            Romano shook his head again.

            “Where did you learn that lullaby?” Romano suddenly asked.

            “Eh? Which?”

            “The one you sang me last night. Where did you hear it?”

            “Ah, that is a good question. I’m afraid I don’t remember...it must have been ages ago. I think it was once very common in Andalucía, _pero ahora_ not many people remember it. My parents used to sing it to me. Why?”

            “My mother sang it to me when I was very little, I think,” Romano said. His breath trembled against Toni’s skin. “I’ve been trying to remember it.”

            “Your mother...she was Spanish?”

            “Not exactly. She was half Sicilian, half Moroccan. But she was born in Spain.” Romano’s voice was getting quieter as he spoke. “But I think I have some Spanish blood.”

            “And your father?”

            “Full-blooded Italian. Like my brother.”

            “Ah. Why did your father...?”

            “Oh, he didn’t remarry. He didn’t need to. He never married my mother in the first place,” Romano interrupted. “I was a bastard, you know. Born out of wedlock. With dirty blood. My father never truly acknowledged my mother. I think in their youth he had promised her that he would marry her, but he never did.”

            Toni was silent. This was the first time Romano was talking about himself, his history, the story of his family. He stayed quiet and listened.

            “But for a few years he supported her. I’m not sure about it all, but my grandfather used to tell me about her. She lived with my father to take care of me when I was just born. But he married a few months after I was born—supposedly an arranged marriage. And so my mother was forced to leave the house. My father’s wife was not unkind, though. She accepted me...which is not to say that she accepted me as a son. She accepted me as a guest in her home. Nothing more. Our relationship was stale. She actively refused to acknowledge my mother at all. My father sent my mother to live in a different home. But, through pressure from my grandfather or my presence or my mother’s family, I’m not sure which, he continued to support her. I was taken to see her often.”

            Toni couldn’t help but make note of the fact that Romano’s eyes glazed over and he trembled slightly when he spoke about his father.

            “But she died when I was three. So I don’t remember her much.”

            Toni didn’t bother apologizing, because he knew that Romano didn’t want to hear it.

            “I remember the lullaby, though,” he continued. “I had a music box that played it. My brother and I shared it, actually. We listened to it together. I always felt happy and safe hearing it.”

            Romano grabbed Toni’s hand and began playing with his fingers, one by one. Stretching them out, spreading them from each other, pulling and tugging them.

            “My grandfather told me that my father loved my mother very much at one point. Perhaps very long ago. But I think he regretted their affair—regretted getting her pregnant. I think he regrets that I’m alive and I’m his son. And regrets even more the fact that I look so much like him, but am dark like her. As strange as it sounds, though...I think my father was heartbroken when my mother died. She got sick, you know, and I think he was devastated. I think he always loved her. But he also hated her. My grandfather told me that I’m so very like her, so...I think that’s why my father hates me, too. I remind him of her. Though I’m not sure if it’s right to even call him my father anymore. He stopped calling me his son years ago.”

            Romano’s voice trailed off and he became still. Toni felt his heart struggling for freedom from this strangulation.

            “Romano?”

            “Hmm.”

            “Do you want to go away?”

            “Eh?”

            “Let’s go away for a weekend. You and I. We can spend the weekend in Wales. We won’t have to sneak around or hide ourselves. We can run around the countryside and stay in a little hotel for a few nights—just the two of us. Would you like that?”

            “Um, I—”

            “It would be good to leave this place for a little bit, no? Don’t you think so, Roma?”

Romano was silent, gripping Toni’s hand.

            “Let’s leave, _querido_. Just for a weekend.”

            “...You would do that?” he murmured. His voice barely audible. “You would do that for me?”

            “ _¿Cuántas veces tengo que decirte? Lo que quieras.”_

Romano’s face broke into a smile that overtook his entire face, brightened his eyes and the room, made Toni laugh out loud. Then Romano laughed, too, and it was a symphony playing in Toni’s apartment. He wrapped his arms relentlessly around Romano’s body and held him, rocked him, squeezed him, while Romano shook. In joy, Toni hoped. In happiness. In ecstasy.

            “ _No te olvides. Este corazón es tuyo,”_ he said with a sloppy kiss to Romano’s forehead.

_“Y este corazón es tuyo.”_

            Toni laughed again, because there was no other possible thing for him to do at that moment.              

           

* * *

 

            Toni was at his desk, concentrating better than usual on his work. He was motivated, perhaps subconsciously, by the knowledge that he was leaving this weekend and would be unable to do work. If he wanted to travel and not worry, he would have to finish his work in an unusually efficient manner. So he sat at his desk and read through essays and filed out papers and did all the things a writing professor at a prestigious university might do at his office. But he was interrupted by a sudden, vibrant knock on his door. It surprised him in its loudness and its intensity. He jumped in his seat, bringing a hand to his rapidly beating heart. It couldn’t be Romano—it was too early. Romano only ever came in the afternoons, and it was just barely ten o’clock.

            “Come in,” he called, taking his glasses off. The door opened and a young man walked in, lips pursed and hand behind his back. Toni blinked. He recognized this person. He looked exactly like Romano, but his skin was much fairer and his hair much lighter. More of an auburn gold color. His eyes were lighter, as well, and he had a much more gentle air about him. He walked with a bounce in his steps and a perpetual blush in his cheeks and a flash of his eyes made Toni feel inexplicably warm.

            It was Feliciano Vargas. The boy, Romano’s half-brother, who Toni had seen in the alcove that night. The talented prodigy that François and Gilbert had told him about.

            “Ah, Professor Fernández?”

            “Yes, come in, please.”

            “I’m, uh, I’m sorry to intrude like this. You must be confused,” the boy smiled. He stepped forward and reached his hand out as Toni stood from the chair. “My name is Feliciano. Feliciano Vargas.”

            “Pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands. Feliciano had a very sunny touch.

            “Do you, er...do you have a few minutes?”

            Toni was terribly confused, and it must have been evident on his face. For Feliciano looked very nervous, even with his unapologetic smile, and his voice shook ever so slightly. It was very strange—he looked exactly like Romano, and their mannerisms were similar, but they were clearly polar opposites.

            “Yes, of course. How can I help you?”

“You know my brother, right? Lovi—ah, I mean, Romano?”

            “He is in my creative writing seminar, yes,” Toni said. He was starting to feel very anxious. Perhaps Feliciano had found out about them in some way or another. “Please, sit, Feliciano.”

            “Thank you very much.” He shifted his weight for a moment, and then sat down lightly in the chair. “Well, this might sound strange...see, I’m, well, I’m worried about him. And I heard that he was here a lot and...” His voice trailed off.

            Toni wanted to lie and tell Feliciano that he didn’t know Romano very well, but he found that he could not bring the words from his mouth.

            “I’ve been trying to talk to him but he’s been very closed off lately,” Feliciano continued. “Would you, ah, happen to know anything? Does he talk to you at all?”

            “Talk to me?”

            “Yes, I mean...well, Lovi can be very temperamental and unpredictable, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he talked to you even though he won’t talk to me.”

            Toni felt a strange guilt building in his stomach. Here was the bright, teary-eyed younger brother of Romano, asking _him_ if he knew anything. Something about the situation was disconcerting, unsettling.

            “I’m sorry, I know this is out of the blue, but...” Feliciano looked up at him with tears running down his cheeks and a wide grin that struck his core. “I really don’t know who else to talk to.”

            “Romano is...” Toni began. “It seems to me that he is searching for himself. I cannot say I know much about him, but I do know that he is struggling with a storm inside him.”

            “He is! He is,” Feliciano nodded vigorously. “He is. Lovi has a lot of demons to fight off. What is he like? In class, I mean, or in your office?”

            “Ah, _bueno_ , he’s a very talented writer. But he has mood swings. Some days he participates well, and other days he does not talk or does not come at all.”

            “Yes, his mood swings are like that,” Feliciano said. “Has he said anything to you?”

            “About what?”

            “I don’t know, anything, really...”

            Toni suddenly remembered something. When Romano had first started coming to his office with pieces of writing. One piece had been about his brother.

            “He loves you very much,” Toni said softly. Feliciano blinked at him. The look of surprise on his face was the spitting image of his older brother.

            “He...what?”

            “He admires you and thinks of you as his closest friend. He loves you a lot, _querido_.”

            The tears continued to stream, but they seemed different now.

            “He does? He told you himself?”

            “ _Sí_. He writes about you. About how much you mean to him.” Toni reached out and put a hand on Feliciano’s shoulder. “He wants to keep you close to him.”

            “Ah...th-thank you so much,” Feliciano smiled. “That means so much to me, _Signor_.”

            Toni let Feliciano Vargas cry quietly in his office, feeling guilt and frustration and an overwhelming rush of affection for Romano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also want to take a moment to dedicate my writing and words to the victims and families affected by the Orlando shooting that happened on Sunday night. 
> 
> It is unacceptable that such hatred is allowed to thrive in a country that preaches acceptance and freedom. It is unacceptable that a piece of shit terrorist can drag my religion through the mud, and it is unacceptable that a piece of shit terrorist can divide us even more. 
> 
> Most of my fanfictions (and original work, actually) celebrate the beauty, diversity, and romance of same-sex couples and queerness. I am queer myself and it's so hard for me to comprehend that love, the same love in what we think of as 'normal' in heterosexual relationships, isn't considered love by so many people. 
> 
> So as you read this and other works, about queer people and their queer adventures, don't forget about REAL queer people, and real queer people of color, and real queer Muslims, and the struggles that we have to go through to live as we are. 
> 
> Sorry to get real on you guys, but it had to be said. 
> 
> Love is love is love is love is love. 
> 
> With that, I love you all, and I'll see you in a few days <3


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ಥ,ಥ

**15**

**Why Do You Keep Pretending, Signor?**

            _There is a boy staring out of the window of his room._

_He is gazing out upon the streets of Rome. Where his heart and his soul will rest forever, in this mysterious and wondrous land full of history and beauty. It is so ancient, he muses, leaning his head on his hand. He is at his desk and he is painting. It’s been a while since he has truly taken time to paint, and he finds it soothing now. He’s not even sure what he’s painting because he’s letting his hands work on their own, letting the curves of the colors and the lines come together as if it were nature. He is thinking about his older brother again. His older brother, whom he hasn’t seen in two years. The boy turns fourteen tomorrow; his brother turned fifteen last month. Celebrating with people that the boy does not know in a place that the boy cannot go to._

_He has asked his father so many times if he can go visit his brother. His lovely older brother whom he misses so much. He hasn’t seen him since Nonno died. Since he was sent to Granada for school. The boy wants to go to Granada desperately to see him. His father won’t allow it. A bad influence, a terrible role model, I don’t want you associating with him so much anymore, Papá says. Live your life here in Rome and he lives his life there and you shall live your lives separately, my darling boy, my prince, light of my life and apple of my eye._

_The boy wonders if his father knows that he saw him, in his youth, laying his hands brutally and angrily upon his older brother’s flesh. Or if his father knows that he sees him hiding the letters that his older brother writes him._

_He is angry with his father, but he is not accustomed to anger, and he’s not sure what to do with it. He cannot understand why his father is so vehemently against him seeing his older brother again—bad, bad, bad influence. He stares out the window and imagines his brother walking through the alleyways. Hands in his pockets, dark hair shimmering, lips in that endearing and brooding pout. Though he must look different now, the boy thinks. He himself has changed significantly. He worries that if he sees his brother again, he will not recognize him._

_This painting is one he is making for his brother, but he has no means to send it to him. Now upset and his mind racing with his thoughts, the boy stands up from his desk and makes his way downstairs, where he knows his father is in his study. He wants to try again. To say, in his sweetest voice, I just want to see him for a little bit. A weekend. Or, at least let me see the letters he writes me. Please Papá. Please. Please. I miss my fratellone. Please._

_His father is on the phone, so he stands out of view and listens to the conversation. His father sounds exasperated. His heart beats in his chest in fear and apprehension—things are never good when his father’s voice is strained and irritated like this. When he makes all of those movements with his hands and narrows his eyes and puckers his lips._

_“Well, how much does he have? Is that enough? You know what, I don’t care. Put enough for the rest of his secondary schooling, and then cut all ties.”_

_Cut all ties._

_“Did you hear me? I said cut all ties.”_

_Cut all ties, what does that mean, the boy thinks. What ties._

_“Yes, that is what I am saying. Tell him if you want, don’t tell him if you don’t want. I don’t want to deal with him anymore. As far as I am concerned, he is not my son.”_

_But he is your son, he is your flesh and blood, isn’t he? He was born of your will and your body and yet you hit him, you yelled at him, you told him he was useless and worthless in the wake of his talented and prodigal younger brother. And now you throw him away._

_You cut all ties?_

_The boy runs into the study with tears running down his face and begins to scream at his father. You can’t, you can’t, he’s my brother._

_You can’t._

_My brother._

_His father is surprised into silence, staring at his son. His hands balled into fists and his high-pitched voice reaching every crevice of the house. It seems that his father is not quite sure what to do._

_He’s my brother and he’s your son and you can’t do this to him, not after everything else you’ve done to him. Not after the scars you left on his skin and on his heart._

_“He’s not my son. You’re my only son. Don’t bring him up to me anymore.”_

_Don’t bring him up to you?_

_As if he never grew up in this house, never ate on your table, never looked to you for guidance and was met with eyes cold with indifference?_

_The boy is not aware of the words he is screaming, but soon his voice is hoarse and his father is screaming at him too and the maids and butlers come running and are ordered to drag him back to his room. A fourteen year-old boy, dragged kicking and screaming to his room like a toddler because he wants to see his older brother._

_But his older brother has been disowned and he fears that he will never see him again._

* * *

 

When Feliciano asked why he was packing on Friday morning, Romano told him the truth. Well, he told him part of the truth; he told him that he was going to spend the weekend in a town in Wales called Holyhead, on the island of Anglesey, whose true Welsh name he truly couldn’t pronounce.

            “What? You’re leaving? Just like that?” Feli gawked. Worry written on his wrinkled, clammy features.

            “Yeah. I need to get away from this place and clear my head. The ocean will help.”

            “You’re...going by yourself?”

            Here came the lie. Romano told him that, yes, he was going alone. That he was used to being alone and just needed the time to gather his thoughts and feel refreshed. Feliciano was incredulous at first, but in the end he accepted the reasoning and wrapped his arms around his brother and held him very tight. Romano held him back, buried his face in his neck so he could smell his special Feliciano smell. He squeezed, unaware of how desperately he had been wanting to hold his younger brother. He felt that he was in his right mind somehow, that he was able to see the world a bit more clearly. Perhaps it was the fact that he had taken his medication that morning. Or perhaps it was the fact that he had been closing himself off from his brother for a while and had starved himself, made himself desperate for his affection now.

            “Come back safely, Lovi,” Feliciano said, stroking his back. “Please don’t get into trouble. And if you need me call me.”

            Romano knew that Feliciano was worried about him—worried that he would find himself on the edge of a cliff looking down upon stormy waters that called out to him with a siren’s voice. But Romano wasn’t worried about that.

            A few hours later he was at the train station, standing on the platform with nothing but a small duffel bag and his backpack, checking his watch incessantly. It was too chilly for his liking. He wore a large jacket and a scarf and thick boots over his jeans, and when he sighed he saw his breath pollute the air.

            _Stupid bastard, he’s gonna miss the train..._

Just then, Romano heard his name. He turned and saw Toni walking onto the platform, with a huge guitar bag on his back and waving his hand with embarrassing vigor. The heat rushed to Romano’s face and he pursed his lips and turned away. People were going to look at them.

            _“Buenos días, mi tesoro.”_

Toni stopped beside Romano and smiled his stupid, genuine smile that made Romano’s heart pound like a drum. He turned to say hello and, as the words were about to leave his tongue, Toni leaned forward and shamelessly kissed his open lips. He tasted like fresh coffee.

            “Oi, Spanish bastard! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Romano stumbled backward, his face red as he covered his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Toni was unfazed, staring at him with his eyes bright and shimmering beneath the winter sun.

            “What?”

            “Don’t do that in public, dumbass,” he said. He could hardly speak he was so embarrassed. As he looked around feverishly, afraid of the looks they were getting and afraid that somebody might recognize them, Toni laughed.

            “ _Ay, lo siento, Roma.”_ He reached forward and gently pinched Romano’s cheek, letting his fingers linger, hover above his red hot skin. “You’re so beautiful I couldn’t help it.”

            Romano lost his voice for a few moments and could only stare, could only blink, mute.

            “And don’t say things like that,” he finally mumbled. His heart sped up, his goosebumps erupted beneath the cloth of his jacket, and he couldn’t maintain eye contact anymore. Couldn’t bear to face that sincere look of wonder in Toni’s eyes because he couldn’t understand it. “Stupid Spaniard.”

            “I’ll be careful next time, Romano. _Vale_ , the train should be here soon. Have everything you need?”

            “Yes.”

            “Wonderful.”

            Despite Romano’s half-hearted protests, Toni had gone to the president of the university, Arthur Kirkland (or as his students affectionately called him, President Eyebrows) and asked to borrow a small cottage that he owned for four days. Which meant that Romano would have to miss a day of class. He didn’t particularly mind. But, not to his surprise, he already missed Feli. His persistence and his smile and his beautiful Roman accent. The last time they had been separated, Romano had nearly gone insane. But he tried to push the memories from his mind and focus purely on Toni—on how he wouldn’t stop smiling at him, how it was clear that he hadn’t brushed his hair that morning, how he still had mint stuck in his teeth from a Mediterranean breakfast he had had that morning, how he had tasted on Romano’s surprised and unsuspecting lips. Standing beside Toni calmed his heart. Knowing (though not quite understanding and not quite believing he deserved it) that Toni felt undeniable affection for him.

            _Unless he doesn’t._

_It could be a complete farce, couldn’t it?_

“Sit at the window, it’s more comfortable,” Toni insisted as they got on the train. Romano sat by the window. Toni sat beside him, a pen behind his ear and his glasses resting atop his disheveled head. Before the train even left the station he had gotten out a book and was reading, taking notes in the margins, completely immersed. While Romano leaned his head on his hand and watched the English scenery roll by. English scenery that soon became lush, romantic Welsh scenery, with cows and sheep and signs that he couldn’t read and a sense of untouched nature. He and Toni didn’t talk much. Toni would give an offhand comment every once in a while, and Romano would mumble some kind of incoherent response, but that was the extent. They were both tired and mutely excited, perhaps too excited to truly show it.

            At one point, Romano realized that Toni had been silent for a while. He glanced over and saw his head bobbing, his eyelids fluttering, as he wavered between wakefulness and sleep. Romano clicked his tongue.

            _Idiot, you’re gonna hurt your neck like that._

He reached over gently and steadied Toni’s head, letting it rest back against the seat. He slept for the rest of the trip, and Romano tried not to stare because surely other people would notice. Perhaps they already had. They were a strange duo, after all. A thirty-something year-old Spanish man with a contagious smile and a loud mouth with some college kid who couldn’t be bothered to smile even once. They were bound to raise questions.

            Which was exactly why they had left, really.

            When they arrived at the train station, they were in a different land. A land where the grayness of the sky was soothing, where the wind blowing through the long blades of grass whispered beautiful words in your ear, where the waves of the ocean were rocky and anonymous, where the chill of the air brought the comfort of being somewhere you’ve never been, somewhere nobody could find you. Romano was paralyzed when he stepped off the train onto the platform, Toni at his heels. He couldn’t shiver in the cold because he felt such warmth inside him. He blinked and looked up at the sky in its vastness. It looked like a new sky, one that he had never seen before. And when he breathed in the air was new, too. He was so immersed in this atmosphere that he jumped in surprise when Toni gently touched his arm.

            “This way, Romano. Let’s get a taxi to the cottage.”

            He followed Toni in a trance. Swept away by the beauty and the simplicity of this place. He descended even more when they were in the taxi, driving along curving paths surrounded by the five-foot blades of grass and seeing the ocean as it swayed, watching the cows laying down in the fields (a sign that it’s about to rain, the taxi driver informed them). Toni sat in the front and made conversation with him while Romano curled up in the back and watched everything. Drank it in.

            _I’ll be here for four days._

He turned away and looked at Toni. Smiling and laughing as he spoke in English with his Spanish accent with the taxi driver who spoke English in a Welsh accent and it was a wonder how they were managing to understand each other.

            _I’ll be here for four days with him._

Toni noticed Romano looking at him and turned over his shoulder. He smiled. And then, while the driver was turned away, blew him a hasty kiss. Romano couldn’t keep the grin from his lips then, and turned back to the window with his heart in flutters.

            _Just Toni._

* * *

 

            As soon as they put their stuff down in the cottage—it was only one floor with very small, very quaint rooms that Romano and Toni instantly fell in love with—Toni was back at the door.

            “Don’t take off your jacket! We’re heading out.”

            “What? We just got here.”

            “We have to take advantage of every moment, _¡querido! Ven.”_

Romano, hiding the fact that he was actually ecstatic, gave a huge sigh and grabbed Toni’s outstretched hand. Now that they were in Wales, in this little town where they might not be able to understand people and they knew nobody and there was a curtain of anonymity, they had come to a mutual, silent understanding that they would do what they wanted. They were not going to hide the way they did on campus. When they passed each other in the halls and nodded cordially, or in class when they held intellectual discussions, all the while hiding the heat that was spreading through their limbs and expanding in the very words they breathed. So now Romano let Toni grasp his hand and felt the safety encased in his fingers without worrying that others would see—he let the redness in his cheeks be clear for all to see. He wouldn’t have minded if someone said to him, “I can hear the beating of your heart.”

            They stepped back outside onto the gravel path, wearing their boots and their scarves and their jackets and still not feeling very cold. But once they were outside, Toni stepped behind Romano, took out a small handkerchief, and wrapped it over his eyes.

            “H-hey! What’re you—?”

            “Shh! I have a surprise for you.”

            “Bastard, I can’t see anything!”

            “It’s fine. I’ll lead you, okay?”

            Romano didn’t like being in this complete darkness. Blinded, he felt Toni’s hands fall atop his and squeeze his fingers.

            “I won’t let you get hurt, _neno._ Come. It’s not far from here.”

            “O...okay.” Romano felt himself being pulled forward, and he stumbled. “If I get hurt or trip or run into something I’ll never forgive you.”

            “ _No te preocupes, Roma,”_ Toni laughed. “ _No te preocupes.”_

After five minutes of walking in this darkness, with nothing but the wind and Toni’s fingers and Toni’s voice to guide him, Romano became accustomed to it. Almost comforted by it. He didn’t have to think. He just had to be led, listening the ground crushed beneath his boots and milky Spanish weaving through his ears.

            “Almost there.”

            The surface changed then—he stepped from the gravel road onto soft ground. Muddy. He could feel the grass reaching up and grasping at the edges of his pants.

            “Toni—!”

            “Almost, almost! _Espera.”_

_Stupid, beautiful bastard..._

“Okay, stop.”

            Romano stopped. He swayed a little bit. He had no sense of his position spatially, had no idea where he was, was still wrapped in darkness. He was aware of Toni letting go of his hand and he felt a surge of fright, but then he felt Toni’s hands on his shoulders and his lips on the back of his neck.

            “Ready?”

            “Yes, yes, hurry up.”

            “Surprise.”

            Toni lifted the blindfold.

            They were standing on the edge of a vast field of grass, on the opposite side of which was a large hill covered in stones. But that wasn’t the first thing Romano saw. The first thing he saw was the sea. It was endless, dropping off the horizon as if flowing over the edge of the earth. The wind whistled by as he stood, Toni steadying him from behind, on this rocky ledge. Staring out across the terrifyingly beautiful water. There was an abandoned lighthouse with peeling white paint, surrounded by stones and murky sand. It was gray and dramatic and Romano began to shiver beneath the weight of his awe. His hair blew into his face, but he couldn’t wipe it away. His knees shook, his tears gathered, but he couldn’t move.

            “T...Toni...”

            “It’s beautiful, _¿sí?”_

Romano tried to nod. His eyes scanned the waves, then the lighthouse, then his neck turned and he looked out across the empty field. The tears fell. Toni still had his hands on Romano’s shoulders, and he wrapped them around his neck and hugged him tightly from behind. Romano, still in a daze, brought his hand up and touched Toni’s arm.

            “I thought you would like it,” he murmured. “Do you like it?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “Roma...?” Toni’s voice dripped with concern. He moved until he was facing him, his silhouette outlined by the ocean and its gray skies. His brow furrowed his and his lips pursed. “Why are you crying?”

            Romano could not respond, for he didn’t know what would come from his mouth if he tried. He simply stood, staring at Toni and sniffling.

            _“Por favor, no llores,”_ Toni pleaded. He began to desperately wipe the tears from Romano’s cheeks, caressing his face and wiping his nose with his sleeve and straightening the loose tendrils of his hair. “ _Por favor...”_

_“M’â scusari,”_ he said, his voice a terrible cracking mess.

            Toni brought Romano’s head to his chest and held him, stroking his hair and kissing his temple.

            “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he whispered.

            _Why do you always do this to me?_

_You make me feel so warm and so happy._

_And for no reason at all._

_It’s not real and you know it._

_Why do you keep pretending?_

_¿Por qué sigues fingiendo, Toni?_

            “It’s all your fault, you bastard,” Romano wailed, grabbing onto Toni’s jacket tightly. Crying against his chest. “It’s all your fault.”

            Romano saw the face of his brother. Smiling as he reached out to grab his hand. He saw the face of his grandfather, holding him by the fireplace and telling him stories. He saw the face of his father, the convulsions in his mouth and his nose and his lips that always happened right before he hit him. He saw the wounds and scars of those he had hurt, heard the voice of the Belgian therapist who had tried to cure him. He saw Toni, kissing him, speaking to him.

            “I don’t deserve this,” Romano heard himself say.

            “ _¿Cómo?”_ Toni pulled away, brows knitted, crouching to look into Romano’s wet eyes. He cupped his chin and tried to lift his face, but Romano couldn’t look at him.

            “I don’t deserve this place. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve for you to do this for me, I don’t, I don’t,” he cried, his words becoming more and more incoherent. “I don’t deserve your love or your affection, I don’t deserve for you to pretend that you care about me—”

            “ _¡Cállate!”_ Toni interrupted. Screaming.

            It was the first time Romano had heard him scream. His eyes widened as he found himself staring into Toni’s angry face. Dumbstruck into silence. Without another word, Toni grabbed his face and kissed him, crushed his lips, and then held him, and they fell to the earth together.

            “Stop it, please,” he murmured. Voice trembling. Grasping onto him as if he would never let go. “ _Mi tesoro, mi cariño, mi Roma.”_

Romano smiled and stared out at the ocean.

            Never convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my uncle owns a sweet cottage in Wales and my family and I spent a few days there once and we found this lighthouse and um
> 
> let's just say it was inspiring
> 
> xoxo


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was by far my favorite chapter to write
> 
> i hope you enjoy it 
> 
> xoxo

**16**

**So You Don’t Catch A Cold, Querido**

 

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

            The wind was gentle and musical. It welcomed them and sang a song for them, harmonizing with the sway of the waves and the rustle of the leaves. It made their hair messy and confused their sense of direction and tried to get them to close their eyes, but it loved them, bringing them warmth even in its chilly swoons. So Toni smiled as he sat upon the grass and felt it grazing his skin, while he found comfort in the earth beneath him. He sat in the middle of this vast field he had discovered, specifically for his Romano. President Kirkland had mentioned it to him—Oh, Antonio, if you _do_ end up going to Anglesey, you absolutely must pay a visit to the South Stack Lighthouse—and he had thought instantly of Romano. Now he was sitting and staring out at the horizon, seeing the lighthouse rising up and symbolic in nature since it no longer had the light from which it had originally taken its name. It was abandoned now. But still it stood, tall and bold, in the middle of this rocky sea.

            Toni picked at the grass absentmindedly, propped up on his elbows, and he watched Romano. He was walking through the grass far away, reaching his arms out and brushing his fingertips along the plants and the flowers and the leaves of grass. He was walking as if on a tightrope, one foot in front of the other, swaying slightly from side to side with each gust of wind. He was staring out across the field, his head moving slowly from side to side. His hair brushed across his stoic, beautiful stone face. He walked with no destination, no goal, no purpose. He merely walked, his movements languid and the very air around him warm. Toni watched his every step.

            Romano didn’t look real anymore. He looked as if in a dream, surrounded by the green and engulfed in the grayness of the sky and moved by the rocking of the waves. Romano had lost contact with reality and moved as his body told him to, moved as the wind directed him. He was silent and distracted, and Toni did not try to speak to him. He merely watched him, entranced and silent. If the waves of the ocean had risen up in a fury and crashed down upon them, Toni would not have looked away. If lightning from the sky had descended upon them, throwing them into burning hot flames, he would not have looked away. If the lighthouse had come crashing down in a torrent of debris, he would not have looked away. Nothing could have torn him away from Romano—his dark writer, his passionate lover, his tormented beauty. He could have watched him wander through eternity without blinking. Without moving from his position on the earth, legs outstretched, craning his neck, elbows supporting his body.

            Romano moved to the ledge overlooking the water. He stood still for a few moments, staring out at something Toni couldn’t see. He imagined for a moment that Romano was staring at the lighthouse. Blown away by its loneliness there on the bay. Feeling a strange camaraderie with the way it stood tall and lovely and abandoned, perhaps never to be touched again. Never to light up, never to do that which it was erected to do. Romano was illuminated by the dim rays of the sun fighting through the gray clouds, hugging himself. His sweater (he had discarded his jacket for reasons Toni couldn’t understand) billowing in the wind, his hair flying in every direction, his head moving slightly from side to side as his gaze wandered across the ocean. Toni felt himself smile. He wondered what Romano was thinking about the ocean. Wondered what about the waves, what about the lighthouse, what about the rocky ledge, was putting him in this trance that was, in turn, putting Toni under its own spell.

            “Roma,” Toni said. He wasn’t sure why he had said it. He wasn’t even sure at first if it would reach Romano’s ears over the wind. But after a few moments, arms now at his side, Romano turned over his shoulder and looked at him.

            His face then was a painting. Or perhaps not a painting, but a sonata. Or even a ballet. Its colors and its melodies and its movements serene and calming and entrancing. Beautiful and passionate, intense and alluring. His eyes were soft, the wrinkles so often embellishing his forehead and his brow gone, his lips set gently. He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning. He was as he was, looking back at Toni because he had heard his name. Toni saw him there, illuminated in this background of the ocean and the lighthouse, and a choked laugh fell from his lips. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe any of it. He was caught between wanting so desperately to hold him, and wanting so desperately to watch him standing like that forever.

            Toni smiled at Romano. Romano blinked. And without a word, he reached his arm out toward Toni. Held it in the air. Kept it there until Toni stood from his position and walked over. Romano’s, it seemed, was the only power that could have pulled him from his seat on the earth. He stepped over the singing grass and grabbed onto Romano’s outstretched hand, his fingers cold and quivering. He stood beside Romano and they looked out at the sea together, as Toni brought Romano’s hand to his lips and put them softly to his knuckles. Romano watched him wordlessly, and then turned to look at the ocean again. His thumb softly caressing Toni’s fingers.

            They sat down on the ground together and let their legs dangle over the edge of the cliff. They knew it was dangerous, but they felt that together there was nothing dangerous to begin with. They put their hands, intertwined, in the grass. Romano swung his legs back and forth, his boots scraping the rough rocks of the cliffside. He reached his other arm out toward the ocean, as if silently calling out to the horizon just as he had silently called out to Toni. As Romano watched the waves, Toni, of course, continued to watch Romano. Committing to memory every single detail of his face. The curl of his lips. The broken edges of his hair. The curve of his ears. The flush in his cheeks, the brown complexion of his skin, the swirls and graceful lines of his jaw. The round end of his nose and the thickness of his eyelashes as they fell upon his cheeks. Toni smiled, overwhelmed, unsure of what else to do. Still questioning how he had gotten to this point, of being so desperately and passionately entranced by someone that he lost sight of everything and anything else.

            Romano inched closer to Toni, until their legs brushed, and he grabbed his arm with his free hand and put his head on Toni’s shoulder.

            “What if the wind just swept us away into the ocean?” he murmured. Toni kissed his head, tasted the muskiness of his hair.

            “We would fall into the waves together.”

            “Would we die?”

            “No,” Toni said. Very sure of himself. “We would not die.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Look at how beautiful the ocean is, _mi tesoro_. Would something so beautiful be so hateful as to kill its lovers?”

            “But to the ocean, we wouldn’t be dying,” Romano continued. “It would be the opposite—the ocean would be taking us in. Would it love us enough to drown us?”

            “I can’t speak for the ocean, I suppose.”

            “You’re right.” Romano paused for the moment. “But I think it would.”

            Romano took a handful of grass beside him and ripped it from the earth. Then he opened his palm over the empty space of the cliffside and they watched the blades of grass fly in the wind, in every direction, abandoning each other to fall into the ocean. Fluttering and twirling until they met their fate. Decided single-handedly by Lovino Vargas.

            As Toni watched them descending over the edge, Romano pulled a nearby flower from the earth, as well. Then he ripped the petals from the stem, throwing the stem over the edge. Without a word he turned and reached up to Toni’s dancing hair. He steadied it, his hands firm but gentle on his scalp, and he put the flower behind his ear. Positioning it so that it might be safe from the torrents of the wind. Once the flower was in Toni’s hair, small and red and mighty, Romano grabbed his arm and again put his head to his shoulder. Toni kissed him again and found himself holding back tears, delighted by the ticklish feeling of the petals behind his ear. He wanted to put a flower in Romano’s hair, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away long enough. So he sat, still, captivated by Romano’s trembling hands and gentle expression. Sacrificing himself to the words that were to fall from his lips and the tears he was to shed. Thankful, oh how thankful he was, to the lighthouse and the ocean for giving themselves to Romano without inhibition. Thankful to the blades of grass for willingly falling to their deaths for Romano. Thankful to the flower, the little red flower, for making its new home in his hair for Romano.

            They felt droplets of rain beginning to fall from the clouds, and for the first few minutes, they didn’t move. They were too comfortable, too warm, holding each other and feeling the earth, to move. But the rain started to come down harder and the waves became angrier. The flower in Toni’s hair became wet and soggy, their clothes stuck to their skin, and they took it as a sign to go home. Toni stood up and helped Romano to his feet. They gripped each other’s hands very tightly and began to trek back the way they came. Toni was very certain that they were going to get lost, which he wouldn’t have particularly minded—but now that the rain was pouring he was worried that Romano was going to get sick. He grabbed Romano’s jacket, which he had thrown to the ground, and forced Romano to use it to cover his head.

            “So you don’t catch a cold, _querido_.”

            Toni tried very hard to remember the pathway back to the cottage. They walked along a winding gravel path surrounded on both sides by tall, tall blades of grass. The wind was howling now and they were drenched. Toni tried to hurry, but Romano was languid. Dragging his feet. His eyes looking up. Watching the heavy clouds weeping, moving across the sky. Pushing out the light. He stared with such a lost look in his eyes.

            They turned right and left and right again and left again, each stretch of path looking just the same as the last. Toni felt a churn in his stomach; he wouldn’t know what to do if Romano got sick because of him. They dragged their boots through the mud, each step becoming heavy. Toni convinced himself that he recognized that tree—this bend is familiar—I remember seeing that rock. Until finally, after he had come to the conclusion that they were going to be lost forever and drown in the downpour, he saw the outline of President Kirkland’s cottage. He hurried forward, pulling Romano behind him. Searched for the keys in his pocket. Opened the door and rushed inside.

            They were soaking. For a good five minutes, they stayed at the doorstep of the cottage and let themselves drip on the old doormat. It was just as cold inside the cottage as it was outside—but it was dry. It seemed as if as soon as they had stepped inside, Romano had finally been hit with the realization of how cold and wet and miserable he was, for he began to shiver violently and hug himself.

            “ _Ah, pobrecito, espera unos minutos.”_

As Romano shook, his teeth chattering loudly, Toni took the soaked jacket from his shoulders and hung it on the coat rack. Then he ran further into the cottage and began searching desperately for a towel or a blanket. Anything. He looked through every cupboard he could find, from the living room to the kitchen to the one bedroom. He found the towels in a closet in the small, constricted bathroom, and nearly tripped on his own feet when he grabbed it and ran back to Romano. Who was still standing in the same spot. Still trembling, as if in fear. Apologizing erratically and incessantly, Toni helped Romano out of his soaking clothes, untied his shoes and pulled them from his feet, and then began to rub his bare, cold skin with the towel. Rubbing like a madman, drying anything and everything. He wiped his hair as well, his face, his arms and his legs and his shoulders and his torso. While he himself was still dripping, but immune to the cold. He didn’t mind. He would take care of himself after Romano was warm and dry.

            “Romano, I’m going to get a bath ready for you, okay? A nice, warm bath,” he said, bringing his face close. Romano nodded silently. Unable to speak through the chatters of his teeth. Toni finally took off his own shoes and then, after a quick kiss to the tip of Romano’s nose, led him inside to the bathroom. Holding him gently by the shoulders and leading him forward. Romano stood in the door of the bathroom while Toni struggled to figure out how this old-fashioned bathtub worked. Finally, he was able to turn on the hot water, and watched impatiently as it filled the tub. Once it was nearly to the rim, he took the towel from Romano’s shoulders, helped him out of his boxers, and slowly lowered him into the water.

            As soon as it touched his skin, Romano sucked in his breath, and his nose crinkled and his lips tightened.

            “ _Lo siento, Roma._ It’ll feel wonderful in a few minutes, _te prometo.”_

Romano curled up and forced himself deeper into the water, as Toni knelt by the tub and smoothed his wet hair from his face. He heaved a sigh of relief that he had finally managed to get Romano here, into the warmth. And, as he had predicted, Romano’s muscles relaxed after a few minutes and he closed his eyes. He sank deeper, until the water was up to his chin. Toni still smoothing the hair from his face. The color returned to Romano’s cheeks and his breaths evened and he stopped shivering. The energy that had seeped out of him when they had been in that field seemed to have returned.

            Romano opened his eyes and looked at Toni. They had their usual spark—he didn’t look so lost and entranced anymore.

            “Bastard,” he suddenly spat.

            “Wha—?”

            “You’re gonna get sick, too! At least go change.”

            “Ah, _sí,_ I suppose you’re right...”

            “Of course I’m right. I’ll be fine. Go, before you get sick and I’m forced to take care of you.”

            “ _Lo que quieras.”_

Toni stood up but, before he left, bent down and put a kiss on Romano’s forehead.

            “I’ll be right back.”

* * *

           

            Forty-five minutes later, they had both taken warm baths and changed into their pajamas. It wasn’t very late but they had put on their pajamas anyway. Toni, in his exploration of the cottage, had found a pile of thick, beautifully quilted blankets under the king-sized bed of the bedroom, and had dragged them out. They had also realized there was no central heating system, but there _was_ a fireplace. Together they had turned it on and put in firewood. Now they were sitting in front of it, wrapped in a blanket and huddled close, staring into the flames. They still felt a little bit chilled, and could hear the pattering of the rain on the windows. Now that they were warm and Toni was comfortable and the flames had calmed him, he looked around. Really drank in the environment of the cottage.

            It was only one floor. It was almost completely made of wood, surrounding them with warm, natural brown. There was a short hallway from the door to the entrance of the living room, (where the fireplace and a few pieces of furniture were) and the kitchen, which were in the same space. The kitchen was relatively big, with counters and cupboards and a stove and a refrigerator that looked a little bit out of place. Everything else looked old and traditional. The paintings on the wall were of beautiful landscapes, in fall covered in orange leaves and in winter covered in a blanket of snow. There was a bookshelf in the corner completely filled, meaning that President Kirkland must have been an avid reader. In the same hallway in the entrance of the cottage were two doors on either side—one leading to the bedroom (which also housed the bathroom) and one leading to a small storage cupboard with cleaning supplies and old antiques and strange things that Toni couldn’t discern.

            The living room itself was beautiful. Above the fireplace was a mirror and multiple photographs, of President Kirkland his family. He had told Toni that he had been coming here for weekend trips with his family since he was a little boy, but hadn’t actively used it for a while. But, he had assured him, he would have someone come and restock the fridge before Toni used it. There were windows on every wall, allowing them to see the beautiful view of the pastures and the open skies. There was a dresser with drawers, an old, musky sofa, a few chairs, and a small dining table. The cottage smelled of spices and mothballs.

            It was ideal and quaint and lovely.

            “Feeling better?” Toni asked. They were sitting so tightly together that their arms appeared attached, their skin glowing red from the fire and their hair messy after being allowed to dry naturally from the baths. Romano nodded.

            “What about you?”

            “I’m wonderful, _mi tesoro, mi cariño, mi Romanito,_ ” Toni smiled. Romano looked at him and smiled back, blushing like a child. Toni leaned forward and kissed those smiling lips, now warm and eager. “Absolutely wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (South Stack Lighthouse isn't actually abandoned by hey DRAMATIC EFFECT)


	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (¬‿¬)

**17**

**Where Did You Learn How to Dance, Signor?**

_There is a boy sitting alone in a bathroom._

_He has lost track of time. He isn’t sure how long he has been in this bathroom. He’s sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed. His dress shirt and his tie and his pants and his socks are wet and sticking to his skin. He feels terribly uncomfortable, but he forces himself deeper into the water, until it spills over the edges of the tub. He cannot tell the difference between his tears and the bath water. He is holding himself tightly, staring into the ripples. It is his birthday. He turns sixteen today. But he doesn’t have anybody to celebrate with._

_Nobody throws him a surprise party (he wouldn’t throw a party himself because he wouldn’t know who to invite)._

_Nobody buys him a cake._

_Nobody brings him presents._

_Nobody sings for him._

_Nobody stops him to look him in the eyes and say, Feliz cumpleaños._

_He has no reason to celebrate anyway, he thinks. There is no reason to celebrate something like a birthday—just another year gone by that he will be forced to remember. Another year in which he was alone, in which he accomplished nothing, in which he was not able to see his younger brother. He could be dead for all he knows. He wonders if his younger brother’s hair is as messy as his. If his skin is still fair. How his voice has changed. His voice was always so nice, the boy wishes his younger brother could sing happy birthday to him._

_He hugs himself more tightly and slides down into the water, until it is at his chin. He considers plunging his entire head in for a moment, but forces himself not to. He continues to stare blankly in front of him. He hates this silence, he hates this place, he hates this life. He hates being so alone, but he cannot imagine being anything but._

_Suddenly, there is banging on the door._

_He holds back a scream. Pushes himself as far back from the door of the bathroom as possible. His heartbeat becomes fast and he cannot breathe. He hears the banging and when he closes his eyes he sees his father looming above him—he sees him swinging his large arm, feels it colliding with his already-swollen cheek—recalls himself sitting in his room hoping that his father will not come in. He hears himself gasping for breath, When will it end, When will it end, Is there no escape from this?_

_The banging comes again and this time he cannot hold back his scream. It is terror and agony and he shakes violently. He doesn’t want his father to hit him. Not again. He doesn’t want to have to stay home for days so that nobody sees his bruises. He doesn’t want to make up stories so that his little brother won’t know. He wants to be alone._

_A voice comes from the other side. It is a voice he recognizes. As it travels across the door, his heartbeat begins to slow. He is still panting, but the voice calms him. If only slightly. It is a woman’s voice. She is calling his name. He screams at her to stop banging the door, and she stops instantly. She is from Belgium and she is a therapist and she has been trying to cure him since his arrival in Granada. She is kind and beautiful, and he does not dislike her, but he knows that he cannot be cured. He isn’t sure what she thinks about him, but it hurts to imagine. He tells her to leave, tells her he doesn’t want to see anybody. Though he cannot express how relieved he is to hear her voice and know that she is there. At least somebody is._

_“I brought you a cake and some candles to blow out,” she says. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”_

_The boy is astounded, and he stares at the door silently._

_Then she starts to sing “Feliz Cumpleaños” for him, and he begins to sob._

* * *

 

            Romano was still staring at the flames. He watched them lick at the firewood and dance with each other and spread their warmth through his chilled skin. He wrapped the blanket more tightly around his shoulders and sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. He heard sizzling from the kitchen and could smell the reassuring, familiar scent of tomatoes. Toni had rummaged through the cupboards and the refrigerator and found enough ingredients to make a simple dish of rice with vegetables and tomato sauce. He was humming while he cooked, the music harmonizing with the raindrops against the windows and the crackling of the fire.

            _It’s so warm._

_Does he feel this warm?_

            Romano couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so comfortable. He was warm from the inside out. He would have been able to sit and listen to Toni hum forever. For the rest of his life. Staring at these flames, engulfed by their dance. They didn’t say anything to each other while Toni cooked. They didn’t have to. They were soothed in the silence, and Romano wondered if Toni was replaying the images in his head, too. If he was recalling what it had been like to stand on that cliffside, made so small by the vastness of this lighthouse and the world around it. When Romano closed his eyes, that was what he saw. That, and Toni, smiling at him, the red flower in his hair.

            Toni brought him a plate of food and they sat down beside each other and ate.

            “I’ll have to thank President Kirkland once I get back,” Toni mused. “Perhaps I should buy him some nice wine. What do British people like to drink?”

            “Anything, probably,” Romano shrugged.

            “Maybe some nice chocolates?”

            “Some tweezers.”

            “Roma!”

            Toni pushed against his shoulder and held in his laughter, while Romano shrugged again and shoveled the food into his mouth. He couldn’t recall having felt this hungry in so long. He had forgotten what hunger, what an appetite, felt like. It seemed as if the rain had brought it back to him. They ate ravenously. When they were done, Toni took Romano’s plate with his own back to the kitchen and put water in the kettle for tea. But he did not sit back down when it was done. He sauntered back to the living room, handed Romano his cup of tea, and began to wander around the room. First to the photos above the fireplace. Then to the bookshelf.

            “President Kirkland reads a lot, it seems,” he said. Romano watched him walk, sipping his tea. “Ah! One of my books is here!”

            “Seriously?”

            “ _¡Sí!_ My very first novella!”

            Romano chuckled to himself as Toni sifted through the rest of the books excitedly. Then he moved to the dresser and opened the first drawer.

            “Oi. You sure President Eyebrows won’t mind you looking through his stuff?”

            “Eh, it’ll be fine,” Toni said with a wave of his hand. Romano sipped his tea incredulously. The first drawer, apparently, was filled with souvenirs from different parts of the world. Italy and Spain included. Little postcards and flags and knick-knacks. It was a terrible cluttered mess, which to Romano seemed very uncharacteristic of Arthur Kirkland. The second drawer was filled with more photographs—too many for Toni to bother looking through. They both figured it would be strange to sit and look through President Kirkland’s photo albums.

            When Toni opened the third drawer, he let out a soft gasp.

            “What?” Romano called.

            _“Mira.”_ With a groan, Toni pulled something large and heavy from the drawer, placing it on top of the dresser. Dust flew around him and he began to cough as he waved it away, and Romano narrowed his eyes. “It’s a record-player.”

            “A damn old one, apparently.”

            It was a gramophone, large and gold and rusty, with a turntable to play records. Toni’s face lit up looking at it, his hands on either side, caressing the old record-player and running along the edges.

            “ _Que bello.”_

“Well? Does President Eyebrows have any records to go with it?”

            _“A ver...”_

Toni reached back into the drawer and pulled out a pile of records, just as dusty and old looking as the phonograph. Romano wasn’t particularly excited about them, but he couldn’t stand how enthralled Toni appeared. It made his heart flutter.

            “Frank Sinatra...The Beatles...Queen...”

            “Some of those are pretty modern relative to those old things, actually.”

            Toni fell silent, focused on looking through the records.

            “I don’t think you’ll find Juanjo Dominguez in there,” Romano laughed.

            “Ah!” Toni cried out so suddenly and loudly that Romano jumped in his seat, nearly spilling the rest of his tea.

            “What?!”

“ _Mira, mira.”_ Toni held up one of the records, his face beaming. “Carlos Gardel.”

            “ _¿Quién?”_

“The King of Tango.” Toni turned over his shoulder and threw Romano a crooked smile, making his face hot and his limbs itchy. “ _¿Te gusta el tango, querido?”_

Looking away, for reasons even he couldn’t explain, Romano pouted and shrugged.

            “It’s all right, I guess.”

            Nearly bouncing where he stood, Toni took the record from its case and placed it gently on the turntable. Romano forced himself to stare into the flames. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he looked back at Toni. After a few moments of silence, followed by some scratchy, unpleasant sounds, the grainy sound of a guitar began to fill the room. It was followed by a smooth, vibrating, just-as-grainy voice. Toni clapped his hands together in delight, making Romano again jump in surprise. When he glanced back at him, huddled beneath his blanket and clutching his mug of tea, Toni was dancing.

            He was stepping forward and backward, left and right, his feet moving in intricate patterns and his hands twirling up and down to the rhythm of the music. Wearing his pajamas and his thick white socks and his messy hair. He looked beautiful and graceful but clumsy and lost at the same time. It was clear that he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, but he didn’t mind. He was dancing because it made him smile.

            _You’re not very good..._

_But I can’t stop watching._

_You’re like a beautiful movie._

_Don’t stop._

_Where did you learn how to dance?_

_¿Dónde aprendiste como bailar, Toni?_

            He moved throughout the room, sometimes clapping his hands, twirling and nearly tripping over his own feet. Romano followed his movements, and at one point he found himself holding back tears.

            _Even when I’m happy, they come._

He turned away, wiping his eyes hastily.

            “Romano! Do you know how to dance?”

            “Of course I don’t.”

            “ _Ven_ , let me show you.”

            “No, you’re not even Argentinean.”

            “ _Ven, ¡ven!”_

“No.”

            But it was clear that Toni was not going to accept that answer. He twirled his way around the sofa to where Romano sat, curled up in his ball. Toni crouched down, whisked the blanket from Romano’s shoulders, and stole the mug of half-finished tea from his hands.

            “Hey, stop it!”

            He did not stop. He grabbed Romano’s arm and forced him to his feet, the smile on his lips never wavering. Romano’s face was red and he felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but Toni was determined. He put his hand on Romano’s waist, and directed Romano’s hand to his own shoulder.

            “Stand like this—now grab my hand. Don’t worry. I’ll lead. I’m not very good at dancing by myself, but I can tango with a partner,” Toni winked.

            “Oi—bastard!”

            Before Romano could gather his wits, he was being led around the room, his hand clutching Toni’s shoulder and his other hand squeezed in his fingers. Forward, backward, spinning around. Toni’s hand moved from Romano’s waist to the small of his back, pulling him closer, until their foreheads brushed. Romano was wide-eyed and tense. But even his surprise could not hide the fact that he did, in fact, know how to dance. And he did, in fact, know how to dance the tango.

            “ _Neno_ , you are a natural,” Toni murmured. Romano watched Toni’s lips as he spoke, watched them move, watched his tongue twisting and turning behind them. They began to move together in perfect harmony, Toni taking the lead. They were careful to avoid knocking anything over, moving throughout the living room and into the kitchen as Carlos Gardel’s voice spurred them on. Soon they were sweating and Romano had lost sense of why he had been reluctant in the first place—his pout replaced by a smile, his embarrassed blush replaced by an unbearably happy one. While he felt Toni’s breath on his lips and closed in on his body and they danced together. Let himself be spun, be dipped, arching his neck back while Toni’s lips grazed his skin.

            “ _Eres loco,”_ Romano said, out of breath.

            “ _Tal vez...”_

The music was cut off as the song ended, and they realized it had been much more than one song—five, maybe six. They were panting, sweating, grasping each other. The rain was still falling. The next song was slow and seductive, its piano melody rippling like water in the air. They understood each other without having to say anything. Toni pulled Romano in tighter, gripped his hand, and began to shuffle in a small circle. Romano leaned his cheek against Toni’s shoulder and put his hand on his chest. They were slow now, hardly moving at all, lost in each other and lost in the music. They couldn’t tell if they were moving to the rhythm or not. They were just moving. Fingers intertwining. Romano breathed in the sweat of Toni’s neck as Toni buried his lips in his hair. Squeezed his fingers more tightly. Pulled him even closer. Then he kissed the side of his head. Then he kissed his temple. Then his cheek. While Romano curled against him and they danced their slow dance.

            “Romano...Romano...” He was whispering in his ear now. His words dripping with heat and passion. Romano sighed out against his shoulder.

            They danced like that for hours. Into the middle of the night. While the rain continued to fall and the fire burned low and darkness encased them. Romano knew that there were tears on his cheeks but he didn’t particularly mind them. The voices in his head were silent. He was thinking of nothing but these precious moments. Held so close, wrapped up in Toni, dancing to a slow tango. He closed his eyes and fell against Toni. Felt Toni’s fingers grasping at the cloth of his shirt. Breathed in.

            Then Toni began to hum along. His voice moving along Romano’s skin, filling his head, making him dizzy and blind. He held Toni more tightly and squeezed his eyes shut. Toni continued to hum.

            There was nothing else.

            Nothing at all.

            Neither of them knew how much time had passed. But when the fire was almost completely gone and the rain was coming down harder than ever and there was absolute darkness outside, Toni put his fingers beneath Romano’s chin and pulled him up to face him. Romano, in spite of himself and in spite of everything around and inside him, let his eyes flutter closed and tilted his head up further. Reaching, grasping. His lips trembled as Toni’s hovered above them. While his thumb moved along his jaw. Toni whispered his name and Romano’s fingers dug into his shoulder. Toni began to wipe the tears from his cheeks, lips still hovering, breath still caught and swallowed on Romano’s tongue.

            _“Bésame,”_ he said.

            _“Lo que quieras.”_

He brought his lips gently down upon Romano’s. Drowning him, destroying him. Romano clutched at Toni and pulled him down harder, until he could feel Toni’s breaths on the back of his throat and taste every detail of his tongue. One hand on Romano’s cheek and the other on the small of his back, Toni closed out the space between them, brought their hips together, forced Romano to take a step backward. Their tongues twirled around each other, explored each other, as Romano took another step back. And another. Until he felt the pressure of the sofa behind his knees and stumbled back upon it, dragging Toni with him. Their legs became tangled and their breaths collided as Toni settled between Romano’s hips and kissed him. Romano couldn’t help but notice that Toni’s heartbeat was in perfect rhythm with the music.

            He wrapped his arms around Toni’s neck and pulled him down until he felt suffocated—suffocated in the most passionate, most eager of ways—beneath him. His body sank into the sofa and Toni pressed his hips down, putting his lips to the corner of Romano’s mouth. Saying his name again. Sighing it, voice trembling with pleasure as he slid his hand beneath Romano’s shirt. Romano felt the coarseness of his fingers and sucked in his breath. Held it for a few moments, before he felt Toni’s tongue against his throat and let out that breath. Exhaled out into the cold, dark air. He dug his fingers deep into Toni’s back as Toni pulled his hair, forced his head back, then plunged his tongue into his open lips. Swiped it along his lower lip, bit down, pulled harder.             “Toni—!”

            Romano squeezed his legs around Toni’s hips and they trembled together, tongues clashing and fingers scratching. Toni sat up for a moment, half-open eyes on Romano’s face and lips parted as he lifted his shirt above his head. Romano, his cheeks red and biting his lip, reached up and put his clammy palms against Toni’s chest. Without moving his gaze from Romano’s face, Toni grabbed Romano’s hand and kissed the tip of his finger. Then he opened his lips and clasped them around his finger, pressing his tongue against the salty skin. Took in another finger, pulled them in deeper, encased them in his lips and his tongue.

            Romano’s pulse reached dangerous speeds and he felt an overwhelming throb in his lower body. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as Toni moved his tongue to the inside of Romano’s wrist, kissed it lightly, and then dragged his tongue down the inside of his arm. Using his other hand to push his shirt up higher, until his body was exposed and vulnerable. His muscles forced to relax as Toni’s wet, thick tongue traversed his skin, his chest, his nipple, down to the rim of his pants. Romano’s body jolted involuntarily when Toni squeezed his hips and kissed the spot just below his belly button.

            “Roma.”

            His voice vibrated along Romano’s skin, and he let out a loud, heavy breath. Grabbed onto the cushions of the couch as Toni lowered his pants more. Brought a hand to the top of Toni’s head and grasped a handful of his hair. Teasing, a smirk on his shimmering lips, Toni put his tongue to the tip of Romano’s erection. He bit down on his lower lip as the sensations began to build and Toni took all of him, slowly, into his mouth. His toes curled and his back arched and he couldn’t keep the whimper from escaping his wide-open lips. Felt Toni’s tongue wrap around him, heightening the pleasure until Romano was aware of nothing else. Toni gripped the inside of his legs and began to take him faster, harder, while Romano pushed down on his head.

            “Ah...!”

            He moaned and his body writhed, but he wasn’t aware of it. Was aware of nothing but the slow tango between his ears and the tingles covering his body and the pleasure that was making him see dizzying colors. The wetness, the agility of Toni’s tongue, his fingers digging into Romano’s legs, the shape of his lips around his erection. He was panting and lightheaded when Toni lifted his head and brought it back up, touched his forehead to Romano’s.

            _“¿Cómo estás?”_

Kissed his upper lip slowly as Romano remained still, then kissed his lower lip. Kissed him again and again, taunting and sensual with the softness of his lips and the way he licked them with his eager tongue. As he pulled down his own pants, he brought his lips to Romano’s forehead. Obedient and desperate, still trembling from the sensations, Romano spread his legs wider.

            Toni had, not to Romano’s surprise, come prepared. He spread lube across his fingers and put them in, though Romano didn’t need much preparation at this point. He took in Toni’s fingers and breathed out against his lips. Dug his fingernails into Toni’s skin as he put his penis inside him, just the tip, then slowly going further. Romano pulled him in tighter until he felt the combination of pain and pleasure that he so craved—being carved out and hollowed so painfully but being sent into a whirlwind of pleasure at the same time.

            _More, more._

_Harder._

_Hurt me, destroy me, I want to hear myself cry._

Toni reached up and pulled against Romano’s hair again as he thrust into him, making Romano scream in both delight and the numbness of the pain that spread through his nerves. But at this point, Toni knew exactly what Romano liked and what Romano didn’t like. With one hand, he dug his nails as hard as he could into the skin of Romano’s ass, pulled his hair with the other hand, sank his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, and mercilessly pounded into him at the same time. It made Romano reel—he was completely blinded.

            _Harder._

“Harder!”

            They were deafened by their moans, their desperate breaths, their screams that nobody would hear. Out here in the Welsh countryside, accompanied only by the ashes in the fireplace and the rain of the clouds.

            When Toni pulled out, they were breathless and bruised and Romano had a few bloody scratches along his back and his legs and he could have fallen asleep right then and there. But Toni wouldn’t allow it. He helped Romano get dressed, directed him as he spoke in hushed tones to the bedroom, and then they wrapped themselves in each other in the bed. And as Toni smoothed Romano’s hair and hummed in his ear, Romano fell asleep—truly, truly fell asleep—for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fucking love the tango and i wish i didn't have two left feet so i could dance it.


	18. 18

**18**

**I Will Play for You, Querido**

 

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

When Toni opened his eyes he had to squint. He and Romano had forgotten to close the blinds when they’d gone to bed last night, so the post-shower sunlight was rushing mercilessly into their bedroom. He blinked a few times to get accustomed to the light. He had one arm wrapped around Romano’s waist, pulling him in, and the other had gone numb beneath Romano’s head. Smiling and drowsy, he squeezed his waist and put his lips to Romano’s neck. Romano moved just slightly, shifting the position of his legs and grabbing Toni’s fingers. But Toni was surprised to realize that Romano truly was asleep. His eyes gently closed, his lips parted, his body rocking with the rhythms of his heavy breaths. Toni wasn’t sure if he could recall another time when he had seen Romano sleeping this soundly. Smiling, he kissed him again. Wondering how he had managed to get so lucky that he could wake up with his arms around him.

            Just as he was beginning to get accustomed to the light, he heard an unbelievably irritating vibrating sound. It was a sound he recognized, and though he was loath to get out of bed, he knew that he needed go answer his phone. After one more kiss, he gently got out of bed, being careful not to rock it so as not to wake Romano (it was so hard to get him to sleep after all). He picked up his phone, ringing on the nightstand. His heart sank when he saw the name flashing on his screen.

            “ _Joder...”_

He picked up the phone and, bringing it to his ear, left the room. Began pacing the kitchen and the living room.

            _“¿Sí?”_

_“Antonio, mi amor, ¿qué tal?”_

_“Ah, María...”_

It was his wife, María. It was strange hearing her voice on the other end of the phone. Before Romano, it had brought him joy, a sense of companionship and comfort. But now he wasn’t quite sure what to feel. Speaking to his wife while his lover slept in the other room.

            “You sound tired. Did I wake you?” she asked.

            “No, no, that’s okay. It’s nice to hear from you.” It wasn’t really a lie. He couldn’t even convince himself that he didn’t miss her, or that he wasn’t glad to speak to her. But he could hear the strain in his own voice—he hoped that she couldn’t.

            “Where are you?”

            “Taking a trip to Wales for the weekend, actually,” he said. “It’s nice here by the ocean.”

            “Oh, I bet. You’re alone?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “Make some friends, Antonio!”

            “Hey, I have friends! I just needed a break, that’s all.”

            “Okay, okay, whatever you say.”

            “What about you? How are you?”

            “Fine, fine. Busy, as always.”

            “Make sure you get rest. You always work yourself too hard.”

            “Of course. Actually, I’ll have a break next week and want to come home and see you.”

            “Oh, _¡estupendo!_ ”

            Suddenly, while María continued to talk, Toni heard something from inside the bedroom. Within moments, he saw a groggy and disheveled Romano appear in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and straightening his pajamas. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, mouthed with his chapped lips, Who is it?

            _Nadie_ , Toni mouthed back, shaking his head.

            “Antonio, are you listening?”

            “Yes, yes, I’m listening.”

            “Is that okay? Well, of course it’s okay. It’s my house too, after all.”

            “ _Claro_...”

            “Is everything okay? You sound distracted.”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Okay, so I’m buying my tickets...when would you be able to pick me up from the airport? What is the nearest airport, anyway? I can’t remember.”

            Romano, stretching his arms, moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Scratching his stomach, looking through its contents. Yawning. He looked so beautifully unkempt and oblivious. Toni instinctively cupped the speaker, so that María couldn’t hear anything that Romano was doing.

            “Ah...I could pick you up from London,” he said, softly.

            “Sure. Why are you whispering?”

            “I’m not.”

            “Okay?”

            “ _Cazzo che ti fotte,_ doesn’t this guy drink milk?” Romano grumbled. Toni couldn’t completely understand what he’d said, but he assumed it was vulgar.

            “Antonio? Is someone there with you?”

            Toni’s voice caught in his throat and his grip on the phone tightened. He glanced over his shoulder at Romano, who was looking back at him with a furrowed brow.

            “No, nobody’s here,” he said.

            What the fuck? Romano mouthed to him.

            “Really?” María said. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone there.”

            “Ah, must be the neighbors...”

            “Oh.”

            “The neighbors, eh?” Romano hissed. Without warning, he grabbed a tomato sitting on the kitchen counter and chucked it straight at Toni’s head. He was able to duck beneath it just in time, hearing it slam against the fireplace. “Eh, bastard?”

            “I definitely hear someone there...”

            “ _No pasa nada, María, no pasa nada.”_

            _“Testa di cazzo!”_ Romano screamed.

            “Okay. Well, I’ll buy my tickets for next Friday—”

            “ _A fanabla!”_

            _“Vale, vale_ ,” he said, ducking beneath another tomato.

            “I’ll send you the itinerary...”

            “Perfect—ai!” This time Romano threw two at once, and one of them hit Toni right in the eye.

            “ _Figlio di puttana!”_

            “What is going _on,_ Antonio?!”

            _“Nada, mi amor._ I have to go, okay? I’ll call you later.”

            _“Vale...te amo.”_

_“Ah...t-te amo también.”_

He hung up just in time to take another tomato to the face. Romano was seething, his face red and his hands clenched into fists. Toni put his phone down and, pretty much in vain, tried to wipe the tomato remnants from his face.

            “That wasn’t nobody, bastard!”

            “No, you’re right.”

            “It was your wife, wasn’t it,” he spat. His eyes glistening with tears. Toni felt like the lowest of the low. “Just a neighbor, eh?”

            “Roma, please.”

            “ _Tu amor_ , eh? Eh?!” His lips turned into a twisted smile as he grasped at his hair, gritting his teeth. “ _¡Y le amas también!”_

“Romano.”

            _“¡Que te jodas, bastardo!”_

Romano, still in his pajamas, stormed past Toni toward the door. He put on his jacket and stepped into his shoes and didn’t bother tying them.

            “Where are you going?”

            “Doesn’t matter. Stay the fuck away. Call your wife for company if you want. You love her, don’t you?”

            Toni flinched when the door slammed.

He decided to give Romano his space. If he were Romano, he would be angry, too. Though, perhaps he wouldn’t have thrown five tomatoes at himself. Putting the tango music back on, he cleaned the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He was worried for a moment about Romano—worried that he would do something impulsive. But he forced himself to take a deep breath. He trusted Romano. He knew he wouldn’t do anything rash. Or so he continued to tell himself. Alone in this house, he explored a little bit more. There wasn’t much to see. He looked through the photographs that President Kirkland had in his dresser. Put in a few more records. Took some photographs of his own with the small camera he had brought with him.

            But he truly began to get worried when the clock struck three and Romano still had not returned. Toni was afraid. He might have gotten lost and was now alone out there, cold and confused and angry. Toni got changed and prepared to go out and look for him. And, before he left, for some reason, he grabbed the guitar he had brought with him and slung it over his shoulder.

            He found immense comfort in the fact that he knew exactly where Romano had gone, though he wasn’t entirely sure how Romano would have known how to get there. Either way, Toni trusted in Romano’s abilities to get where he wanted to be. He also trusted in Romano’s (perhaps subconscious) desires to be found. So, guitar on his back and breathing shallow with worry, Toni made his way to the lighthouse. Thinking that he might run into Romano on the way. He didn’t. When he stumbled out onto the vast cliffside overlooking the lighthouse, he saw a slender silhouette at the edge. Sitting, letting his legs dangle, picking the petals from a flower and tossing them into the ocean. It was much more calm than yesterday, with speckles of sunlight dotting the grass and illuminating the colors. Somehow, Toni had found it more beautiful beneath a screen of gray.

            He didn’t say anything. He silently approached the figure, and he knew that Romano knew he was there. Without a word, he put his guitar onto the earth beside him and sat down. Romano did not look at him. His gaze fixed on the waves below.

            “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna jump or anything,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t make Feli upset like that.”

            Toni wanted to cry he was so relieved, and scream he was so angry with himself.

            “Besides, you loving some other woman really isn’t a reason to jump into the ocean,” he scoffed. “What a pathetic way to die _that_ would be, eh?”

            “I’m sorry, Romano.”

            “What’re you sorry for? Don’t apologize, you big stupid bastard,” he said, tossing the remains of the flower over the edge. Watching them sink beneath the water’s surface. “It’s not like I didn’t know you were married. You warned me, didn’t you? At the beginning of this mess?”

            “Still...”

            “Just shut up already.” Romano lifted his legs and hugged them to his chest. “It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this.”

            Toni’s grip on the blades of grass tightened and his muscles became tense.

            “Of course I knew, of course I did,” he said, talking more to himself than to Toni. “That I’m nobody, that when your wife calls you have to pretend I’m a neighbor. That if someone were to ask you, someone who mattered, I’m just another one of your students. I’m not blind. I know that. I know.”

            His tears were silent and frail.

            “So if I knew this whole time...why does it still hurt so fucking bad?” Romano smiled a dry, ironic smile. “Why do I lose my shit when you tell your wife that you love her? Why do I still want you like this? Why does it hurt so much that I can’t have you all to myself?”

            Toni tried to recall again why he had subjected Romano to this pain. Tried to remember what kind of justification he could have had. Why he had listened when Romano had cried in his office and said, I want you. Why hadn’t he said, a stern look in his professor eyes, no? I’m married, I’m ten years older than you, I’m your professor. His heart was suffocating again and he had no idea how to save it.

            “I didn’t think I would want that,” Romano continued. “I didn’t think I would want you all to myself. I didn’t think this would happen.”

            “We never think it will.”

            “But here we are. In the middle of fucking nowhere Wales, because you feel sorry for me.”

            “That’s not true.” Toni said it without hesitation. Said the words before he had even formulated them in his head. “That’s not true at all.”

            Romano glanced over at him. Eyes glistening, lips quivering.

            “You still have tomato on your face,” he murmured. He reached up and wiped it from Toni’s cheek.

            “I didn’t bring you here because I feel sorry for you,” Toni said. It was clear from the unchanging expression on Romano’s face that he didn’t believe him. “I brought you here because...because...”

            “Because you feel bad for some suicidal kid that decided he wanted to have sex with you when you told him you liked his writing,” Romano finished. “That’s why. I mean, I don’t care. I predicted as much. You don’t have to hide it.”

            “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

            “I’m just saying what I know is true.”

            “It’s not.”

            “Then enlighten me,” Romano said, his voice breaking. “Why the fuck do we keep doing this?”

            “Because we feel it.”

            “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

            “Look,” Toni whispered. He reached over and grabbed Romano’s hand, and held it between them. Cupped it in his fingers. “Do you feel the warmth here?”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “This fire. Burning between us. You feel it, don’t you?”

            “ _Dio mio...”_

“You do, don’t you, Romano? It’s hot and it’s dangerous, but we are like moths, drawn to it. To its passion and its warmth.”

            “Just shut up.”

            “I should have stopped it before it became this big,” Toni chuckled. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have said no when you came to my office.”

            “So you wouldn’t have to deal with this.”

            “No, that’s not why,” Toni said. He clenched Romano’s trembling hands more tightly, kissed his white knuckles. “Because now I’ve trapped you. And you don’t deserve the pain that I’m forcing upon you. I should have suffered your absence to save you from this pain. I shouldn’t have been selfish.”

            “I asked for it. You just gave me what I wanted.”

            “I should have refused. Even if it hurt me.”

            “Do you love her, Toni?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?”

            “I mean I’m not sure. Perhaps I did at one point.” He paused. “But I think that if I truly loved her, I wouldn’t have followed you here.”

            “That’s not fair to her.”

            “ _Claro._ ”

            “I’m a terrible person.”

            “Shh.”

            “I can’t understand this. I can’t understand you.”

            “Roma.”

            “Even though I knew it the whole time...Even though _you_ knew it the whole time...”

            “Do you like flamenco, _querido?”_

“What?”

            “Flamenco. You were in Spain for long enough, no...?”

            “I mean, I—”

            “ _No te preocupes._ I won’t make you dance this time _._ ” He lightly pinched Romano’s cheek with a smile.

Toni let go of Romano’s hands and grabbed his guitar, because he realized that his words weren’t going to be making sense anymore. He wasn’t going to be able to speak. He couldn’t understand how to project to Romano in words the thoughts whirring in his mind. He needed some way to translate.

            “You’ve never played guitar for me,” Romano murmured, hugging his legs again.

            “You never asked,” Toni winked.

            He ran his fingers along the strings of the guitar, felt them coarse against his skin. The sound that emerged wasn’t exactly what he had been looking for. With another smile in Romano’s direction, he reached up and adjusted the strings. Ran his fingers along the strings again, until he was satisfied with the sound. Then he began.

            He recalled the nights in his beautiful España, sitting in Plaza Mayor playing his guitar. Not because he needed the money or wanted the attention, but because he had felt that he could do nothing else. His fingers on the strings were nimble, his thumb still against the guitar while they moved with quick and nimble movements. Fast tempo, then slow again, his head moving unconsciously with the rhythm. He was aware of a few mistakes that he made (it had been a while since he had played a flamenco) but continued to play with a smile regardless. He wasn’t sure how Romano was reacting, because he couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t lose focus on the music, its ebbing and its flows with the waves. The sunlight he felt was no longer Welsh, but Spanish. The waves he heard were the Mediterranean.

            When he was sweating and his fingers hurt, he began the last segment—a continuous flow of notes up and down. A complex and difficult scale. And with a flourish of his hand, he opened his eyes and completed the piece.

            Romano was leaning his cheek on his knees, gazing unflinchingly at Toni, whose face was red and whose smile was beaming.

            “ _Sei una meraviglia,”_ Romano murmured.

            “Whenever you ask me I will play for you, _querido.”_

“Toni.”

            _“Dime.”_

“I’m really scared.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I think I’m in love with you,” he said, a sob breaking from his lips as he smiled. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

            Toni wasn’t sure what to say. He stared, wide-eyed and teary, at Romano. This beautiful, scarred boy who was telling him that he was in love with him. Who was unapologetic and strong in his emotional convictions.

            “ _T’amu.”_

That was something that Toni could have understood in any language.

            _“No te olvides. Mi corazón es tuyo,”_ Toni said. He managed a shaky smile, pounding his hand against his heart. “Even if I call my wife and tell her I love her...even if it’s hard and we are burning in these flames...even if you were to decide that you hate me...I am yours. _Ahora y para siempre._ ”

            “All of you?”

            “All of me,” he murmured. “Every last bit of me is in love with you, Lovino Vargas. _Mi inspiración. Mi tesoro.”_

“What now?” Romano whispered. “I’m terrified.”

            Toni began to play his guitar again. He knew that Romano would recognize it.

            _“Bésame...bésame mucho,”_ he sang. Romano smiled and a combination of a laugh and a sob escaped his lips. “ _Como si fuera esta noche la última vez.”_

Romano began to sing with him. His voice shaky and cracking but dripping with passion.

            _“Bésame...bésame mucho. Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte después.”_

Bésame mucho, querido.

            Baciami molto, caro mio.

            Te quiero.

            T’amu.

            I am yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse me while i listen to "Bésame Mucho" on repeat for the next ten hours
> 
> nos vemos


	19. 19

**19**

**Will You Say It Forever, Signor?**

_There is a boy staring at another boy._

_They are in a schoolroom, listening to a teacher tell them about the Spanish Inquisition but not quite paying attention. They have been staring at each other for a while now. The boy, the one from Sicily who is sixteen years old and very lonely, feels very determined to not break eye contact. He wants to stare at the other, the pure blood Spaniard, until his eyes are dry from the mere sight of him._

_The boy from Sicily doesn't have many friends—he has celebrated every birthday here since his fourteenth alone. He talks to people, certainly, but his accent and mannerisms and strange aversion to being touched or walked near have made it difficult to find people willing to stay around him long enough. They seem to get easily fed up with his antics. The way he cringes and pushes people away, even when they lightly touch his arm. The way he blurts insults and hurls them at people. The way he gazes with a constant pout and sits with his notebook even when others invite him out. The way he only seems to move or respond when they offer him cigarettes or something to drink._

_But this boy he's staring at is different. He had told him, openly and with no reservations, that he didn't mind him. If he wanted a friend, he had one, the boy had said, handing a cigarette to him. Not anything that would warrant the boy from Sicily seeing a friend or partner for life, but it was enough to put a feeling of fire in his stomach and make him thirst so much for affection—or, rather, realize this thirst for affection that had been building inside of him and was close to drowning him alive._

_So now he stares._

_They have agreed to go to lunch after class. The Spanish boy has a movie he's been wanting to watch—would the Sicilian boy like to come?_

_Of course._

_If it means you tell me that I am something to you—as long as you show me some semblance of affection, as twisted or distorted as it may be—then I would like very much to come._

_This isn't the first time the lonely boy from Sicily has done this. There have been other boys before this Spanish one. A French one. A British one. Another Spanish one, but from the north. One after the other..._

_It helps him miss his brother less. Helps him miss Rome less. Helps him miss the streets of Sicily he has come to think of as "home" less. Helps him forget about the fact that he has never truly had innocence, has he?_

 

* * *

 

            Romano convinced Toni to let him deal with dinner that night. He had scoured the cabinets of President Eyebrow's kitchens and found all the ingredients he would need for a simple spaghetti dish, complete with tomatoes and eggplants and basil and ricotta cheese. Filled with the taste of his home in the Sicilian streets. So now he stood in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes and eggplants, his eyes moving naturally toward the living room every few moments. To the spot where Toni sat, legs crossed, glasses askew, writing like a madman. His back was to Romano, but he didn't need to see his face to know his expression. It was his writing expression—furrowed brows, tight lips, hard and shimmering eyes. Writing, writing, writing, stopping every few moments to fiddle with the unsuspecting hairs of his eyebrows or turn his neck and look at Romano. Smile a stupidly genuine smile that could have made a cynical, senile old man laugh. Then turn back to his notebook. 

            _He hasn't let me read any of the things he's written about me._

_What if they're about how terrible and annoying I am?_

            Romano chuckled to himself and kept cooking. Moving his hands instinctively to the beat of the Frank Sinatra wafting from the gramophone. The smell of eggplant, tomatoes, and basil filled the cottage.

            “Oi, Toni! Open a window, would you?”

            It seemed that Toni didn’t hear, because he didn’t even turn around. With a roll of his eyes, Romano left his station and cracked one of the windows open. Still Toni didn’t move, except to fiddle with his eyebrows. Though Romano had to admit, he liked that image of him. Sitting and writing like that. Not being able to hear even the voice of his lover. He paused at the window and stared at his profile for a moment. His face exactly as Romano had imagined it. Then, perhaps tingling with the feeling of someone watching him, Toni finally looked up, gazing into Romano’s face over his glasses.

            “Now you look like a professor,” Romano mocked.

            “I do, don’t I?” he winked. Romano gave an exaggerated wink back and returned to the kitchen. He continued to cook, unbelievably happy. But always with that nagging in the back of his head. The voices telling him that it wasn’t real—or, if it was, that it wouldn’t last.

            _He’ll grow tired of you._

_Even if he does love you._

_But...do you think he actually does?_

_Has anyone ever told the truth about that before?_

_Are you worth loving?_

As they were sitting down to eat, Toni snapped his fingers.

            “Ai _,_ I forgot! I brought a nice bottle of wine.”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll get it. You start eating.”

            “It’s in my duffel bag.”

            “No shit.”

            As Romano walked by to the bedroom, Toni pinched his ass lightly, making him red in the face and quivering in the skin. In the room, Romano put Toni’s duffel bag on the bed and began to ruffle through it. The clothes and the books and the random knick-knacks—why did he bother bringing all this?—in search of the bottle of wine, for which he had become unknowingly desperate. As he felt his hand close around its neck, something else caught his eye. A small blue box in the very corner of the bag, hidden away. Romano put the bottle of wine on the bed and pulled out the box. He opened it and the scent was aggressive to his unsuspecting nose. It made his heart jump as a dormant desire awakened. He moved to the doorframe, blue box in hand.

            “Toni! You didn’t tell me you brought this!” he cried. Toni, pasta hanging from his lips, turned over his shoulder.

            “Roma, you smoke?”

            “You should’ve told me you had some!”

            “I didn’t know you smoked, _querido.”_

“Well then why’d you bring it?!”

            Toni shrugged and slurped up his pasta.

            “Habit, maybe?” Then he cracked a smile. “You want to smoke it after dinner?”

            “Yes.”

            “ _Vale. Pues, trae el vino, Romanito. Después de la cena.”_

So they ate their dinner and they drank their wine and they talked. About Wales, about their campus, about recent literature that they’d read. Toni throwing unwarranted compliments and Romano unable to respond to them. With no choice but to stare, feeling as if he were stargazing, into Toni’s eyes. Pushing away the voices in his head and the repetition of when Toni had said to his wife on the phone, _Te amo._

“You’re a great cook!”

            “ _Lo sé.”_

“What is this dish called?”

            “ _Pasta alla norma.”_

_“Tan rica.”_

“My uncle taught me how to make it.”

            “Is it the only thing you know how to cook?”

            “No! What kind of Sicilian do you take me for?”

            They laughed, their minds growing happily hazy from the alcohol. The music was sweeter in their ears and the pasta was richer on their tongues. When they were finished, Romano took the dishes to the sink. As he washed them, swaying to the music, Toni came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. He kissed his neck and set Romano on fire.

            “ _Te quiero,”_ he whispered into his ear. Romano closed his eyes and his hand stopped scrubbing for a moment. Lost in Toni’s breath, in his voice engulfing him, in the feeling of his fingers squeezing his slender waist.

            “Let me at least finish the dishes, bastard,” he said. With so little conviction that he wouldn’t have been able to convince a child. Toni, Romano had discovered, loved to tease, though. He kissed Romano’s neck one more time and went back to his spot on the floor of the living room.

            He closed his notebook and grabbed the little blue box and began to roll a spliff. The last time Romano had smoked a spliff had been in Granada, just before he came to England. He had always preferred them to cigarettes—being high was a very luxurious and helpful feeling for him, he had found. And it was so popular in Spain that it had been nearly impossible to avoid. He was very excited, more than he would have liked to admit, to get high again.

            When he was finally finished, he changed into his pajamas and set the fire in the fireplace and curled up on the floor beside Toni. He had dragged with him from the bedroom one of the large quilts. He could imagine President Eyebrow’s grandmother, with equally grandiose eyebrows, sitting and quilting it herself here in the Welsh countryside. The idea made him smile. They wrapped it around their shoulders and squeezed very close together. Before Toni could say anything, Romano sat himself between Toni’s legs and leaned back against his chest. Toni laughed against his hair and hugged him tight, tight, tight, before finishing the spliff.

            “You know what you’re doing, old man?”

            “ _Claro, soy Madrileño.”_

Romano couldn’t argue with that.

            They lit up and got high. Not so high that they were unaware of their surroundings and unaware of each other, but high enough that they were lost, wandering, soaring and singing in the sensations of one another. Romano felt that there was nothing better, no better feeling at all, than being held like this by Antonio Fernández Carriedo. So tightly that he might have suffocated. Feeling his warm, marijuana-poisoned breaths on the back of his neck as his lips kissed the spot just above the center of his shoulder blades. Romano leaned back against him and held his fingers and could have stayed like that forever. Staring into those flames. High and drowning and not able to hear even a peep from the voices in his head.

            As he kissed the back of Romano’s neck, letting his tongue draw secret tunnels from Madrid to Sicily, Romano thought about his mother for some reason. He wondered if the warmth he felt now, in Toni’s arms, was anything like the warmth he had felt in his mother’s arms. As he wondered, Toni lowered the back of Romano’s shirt and kissed the center of his shoulder blades. Where the bone of his spine protruded. And he moved lower.

            But then he stopped. Brought his finger to Romano’s back and stroked it.

            “I wonder why I never noticed,” he said, his words slow. “You have scars on your back.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why didn’t I notice?”

            Romano shrugged.

            “Do you have others?”

            “Yeah. But not many. They’re mostly on my back.”

            “Why?”

            “Because Papá didn’t want anybody to notice them.”

            Toni froze. Romano leaned back further against him until they brushed cheeks.

            “They’re from when I lived with Papá and Feli in Rome. Before he shipped me off to Sicily so I couldn’t bother him anymore.” Now Romano was talking and he wasn’t sure why but he couldn’t stop. “How old was I the first time....Four? Five? I don’t know. He did it the first time because he was really angry at me for breaking an old vase. I had chorea—you know, uncontrollable muscle movements. I ended up growing out of it. But not before I fucked up pretty much everything.”

            “Roma...”

            “But I think after the first time, he realized that hitting me made him feel better about hating me. You know? I guess I represented my mother to him. Or...I don’t know, maybe he saw some twisted image of himself in me. His little bastard child. Anyway, after the first time, he couldn’t get enough. A lot of the time I couldn’t go out anywhere because I had a black eye or a bloody lip and he didn’t want anybody to notice.”

            Toni held Romano more tightly, but was silent.

            “His excuse was that I needed to be more like my genius baby brother. Like little Feliciano. Look at him, so fair and so talented. Listen to him play the piano. Look at his painting. Watch him dance. Admire how he smiles and is bright and is absolutely nothing like you. You’re so dark and useless. _Bambino spregevole._ Why can’t you be more like him? Why can’t you stop fucking up everything, Lovino?! _Mi rovina, mi rovina._ ”

            Now Romano was thinking about his father.

            “Whenever he took me to his office I knew what was coming and sometimes I pissed myself I was so scared. He would sit me down and yell at me. You are stupid, you are worthless, control yourself. Then he would hit me. Sometimes until I saw stars. As I grew older he learned that my back was the best place because nobody could see the bruises. Other times he wouldn’t speak to me for weeks, and he would tell all the maids and butlers to ignore me, too. He would come home and kiss Feliciano on the forehead as we ran to the door to greet him, and then he would walk to his room without so much as a glance in my direction. Can you imagine what that’s like? Being treated as a dirty, irritating speck of dust to be cleaned up by somebody else by your own father?”

            “No.”

            “Of course not! Of course not.” Romano paused, distracted by the way Toni’s fingers looked in the light of the fire. They were very graceful and beautiful. “I didn’t cry very often, though, because I didn’t want Feli to know. He was the only thing that kept me going. The only thing that kept me strong. Nonno, too. He used to tell me stories about my mother and he took me to get medicine for my chorea and he brought Feliciano to visit me in Sicily after Papá shipped me off when I was seven. Maybe I shouldn’t call him Papá? He disowned me...how many years ago? I forget. But he disowned me. I’m not really part of the Vargas family anymore, but I don’t have another name to go by so I use that one.”

            Romano chuckled to himself.

            “I’m pretty fucked up now. I don’t think it’s because of my father, though. I don’t blame him. I think it’s because I’m just fucked up. I hear voices in my head and sometimes I don’t know how to get out of bed because I can’t figure out why I would even bother. It’s hard to eat because I don’t have an appetite a lot of the time. Writing helps.”

            “You’re very good at it.”

            “I know. I can do it in a lot of languages, too.”

            “ _Que eres impresionante, hijo.”_

“Spanish, Italian, English, Arabic...”

            “ _Muy, muy impresionante.”_

“But in the end they were right. Feli is much more talented than I am. He’s a real genius. And you know the worst part? He’s not even an asshole about it. He’s humble and he’s kind. He makes me feel all warm—I love him a lot. Sometimes I wish that I hated him so I could finally be free from that family, but I love him so much that I would never dream of it.”

            “He loves you, too.”

            “How the fuck do you know?”

            “He told me.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “He told me, too. Actually, he tells me all the time. I don’t believe him. Why would I? I made his childhood more difficult than it needed to be, you know? It’s not fair to make a kid feel bad about being good at things. Sometimes he refused to draw or play anything on the piano because ‘Lovi feels bad and I don’t like that!’ He’s too nice for his own good.”

            “Do you believe me?”

            “Eh?”

            “When I tell you I love you, do you believe me?”

            “I don’t know. Probably not.”

            “ _Te quiero,”_ he murmured. Drew the words with his breath onto Romano’s burning skin. Romano closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Let his muscles relax. “ _Te quiero, Lovino Vargas. Te quiero. Te quiero.”_ Drawing them on different parts of his bruised back. Moving along the paths he had traced with his tongue, down through the secret tunnels from Madrid to Sicily.

            “Why do you keep repeating it?” he whispered.

            “To make sure you believe it,” Toni said. “ _Te quiero. Te quiero. Te quiero. Te quiero.”_

“I don’t think just saying it is going to help.”

            “ _Te quiero. Te quiero. Te quiero.”_

_Don’t stop._

_“Te quiero. Te quiero. Te quiero.”_

_Don’t ever stop._

_“Bésame.”_

_Will you say it forever?_

_¿Lo dirás para siempre, Toni?_

_“Te quiero.”_

* * *

 

I don’t believe you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM TITLE DROP
> 
> *throws confetti*
> 
> in other news i love pasta alla norma


	20. 20

**20**

**When You Look Like That, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

Toni pulled Romano’s shirt over his head and tossed it aside so that he could put his palms on his bare back. He moved them up and down his calloused skin, watched Romano’s body move and respond to his touch. Toni leaned down and put his lips to one of Romano’s scars. It tasted of sweetness and sorrow. Romano’s body arched with his inhale. Fingers hovering, dancing above his back, Toni kissed another scar. This one tasted the same. So much sorrow. He could feel in Romano’s bones and hear in his breath the innocence lost, an entire childhood crushed in the hands that created these scars. Toni’s bloodshot eyes filled with tears as he imagined Romano, small and very beautiful, cowering in fear of the next wave of pain. He almost wished that Romano had not told him. Then he would not have to feel this ache in his heart. But that was selfish, wasn’t it? He kissed another scar and wrapped his arms around Romano, placing his palms against his chest.

            “Toni...”

            Romano leaned his head back and let Toni’s fingers clutch gently at the smooth, vulnerable skin of his neck. As he made a trail of kisses from the center of his back to his shoulder blades and his other hand grazed the quivering skin of Romano’s hips. He pulled him back more tightly against him and pressed his lips harder, perhaps trying subconsciously to add his own marks to the canvas of Romano’s body. He wrapped his legs and twisted them around Romano’s. Toni trembled as he heard Romano moan quietly—a soft, gentle sound that drove him mad. He pushed his tongue to Romano’s skin and ran his index finger along his parted lips. Pulling him down against the fiery spot between his legs. Romano let out another breath, heavy against Toni’s fingertips.

            “ _Roma...te quiero...”_

As he said the words, Romano shifted position. He had his arms around Toni’s neck now and his legs wrapped around his waist and his face buried against Toni’s neck. Pushing him back against the sofa. His breaths falling upon his skin, making his spine tingle. He held Romano close.

            “What is it, _querido_?” he murmured. Romano shook his head, over and over and over. Toni smiled and kissed his temple. “ _Dime.”_

“Mm, Toni...you smell so good.”

            “Oh, I do?” he teased. “You don’t smell so bad yourself.”

            “What do I smell like?”

            “Marijuana.”

            “No, no, that’s not what I mean!”

            “Well... _a ver..._ sometimes you smell like the ocean, sometimes you smell like figs. But your hair smells of spices.”

            “Figs? That’s specific.”

            “What do I smell like?”

            “You smell like spices, too. And cinnamon. I think it’s your cologne.”

            “Maybe.”

            “But after you shower you smell like flowers.”

            “ _Ay, neno, que eres mono.”_

Toni was becoming overwhelmed with his affection for this boy and squeezed him, rocked him, blew into his ear. Romano laughed and let himself be rocked, holding more tightly to Toni with every second that passed.

            “Toni, Toni.”

            “ _Dime.”_

            “I have a favor to ask.”

            “Anything, _mi tesoro.”_

“Will you dance for me again? The way you did yesterday...you were dancing all by yourself and it looked so beautiful. Dance for me again.”

            “ _Lo que quieras.”_

With a swift, inevitable peck to Romano’s puckered lips, Toni scrambled out from beneath him and stood up, stretching his limbs and swaying slightly. The effects of the spliff definitely were not as significant for him as they were for Romano. He moved to the gramophone while Romano clambered onto the couch to lay down, pulling the blanket over his bare torso. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were red and he looked awfully happy, awfully content, even though only minutes ago he had relayed the history of his abuse and neglect. Toni gazed at him for a few moments, and then put in the Carlos Gardel record (which he still couldn’t believe President Kirkland had). Toni was well aware of his skills—or lack thereof—when it came to dancing, but as a Spaniard he had felt it a duty to learn to hold his own on the dance floor.

            As he began to move, his feet stepping in smooth patterns and his hips swaying, he lifted his arms and kept his eyes fixed to Romano’s face. He blinked slowly and rested his cheek on his hand, curling up there on the couch. There was a gentle smile tugging on the corners of his lips and Toni was certain that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. It made his entire body tingle, made it hard for him to continue dancing smoothly. He was weighed down by the heaviness of the compassion he was feeling for his Roma. His little Sicilian Lovino, with his scars and his uncertain smile and the way he wrote like an old man who had been writing for decades. This child who, when not smiling and relaxed by the effects of the drugs he had begged to smoke, carried a dark cloud around him and avoided eye contact and sighed sighs that shook the earth upon which Toni stood.

            He truly was in love with Romano, wasn’t he? The kind of blind, over-his-head love that made him immune to the pain of the flames upon which he stood.

            The realization made him dizzy, but still he danced, because Romano had asked him to. He smiled at Romano and clapped his hands to the beat of the music, twirling, being careful to avoid the vases and the portraits and the little things that President Kirkland had lying around his cottage. Romano laughed and followed his moves, moving his head to match the music.

            “You don’t want to dance with me?” Toni said with a wink after a few songs.

            “No,” Romano said. “You wouldn’t want me to dance with you, anyway.”

            “And why’s that, _cariño?”_

“Nobody would want to dance with me,” he said. Nonchalance on his dry lips as his eyes fluttered closed. Toni stopped, letting his arms droop to his sides. “Why would they?”

            Toni clenched his fists together and clicked his tongue. He remembered how Romano had cried there on the cliffside, letting the history of the scars and their clotted blood overtake him. How he had screamed and lashed out not at Toni—as he so often did—but at himself. Romano was falling asleep now and Toni couldn’t stand that the only reason he didn’t want to dance was because he didn’t want to be a burden. Toni stared at the ground and took a few deep breaths. The music was lonely and useless now. He turned it off.

            He dragged his feet to the side of the sofa and knelt beside the sleeping Romano. The side of his face crushed against the sofa, his mouth open just slightly, his eyelashes hovering, quivering above his rosy cheeks. Red, blotchy spots on his neck and shoulders to mark the spots where Toni’s lips had been. Toni wondered what he was dreaming about. Nightmares, maybe? Perhaps from those came his aversion to sleep. Furrowed brow and tight lips, Toni reached forward and put his fingers into Romano’s disheveled hair. Brushed his cheek with his thumb. Leaned his head against the sofa and watched the breaths land upon his open lips. Then he began to hum the lullaby—the one that Romano had claimed was the same his mother used to sing him. He wasn’t sure if Romano could hear him, but Toni hummed it anyway. He could not tear his eyes from Romano’s suddenly quiet, suddenly soft, suddenly child-like face. He watched every change, every movement. Tried to trace the dance of his eyelashes and the faraway travels of his breaths. Hummed.

            Toni realized it was perhaps the middle of the night when he found himself beginning to doze off. But he absolutely hated not sleeping in his bed, or on the windowsill of his office. Reluctant to move away from Romano for even a second, he forced himself to his feet, but put his lips to Romano’s forehead. Pressed them there until he couldn’t differentiate between his lips and Romano’s skin.

            “Lovino,” he whispered. “ _Ven a la cama.”_

He put one arm behind Romano’s neck and the other arm behind his legs, making sure that the blanket was still secure around his vulnerable, weak body. Then, as slowly and as gently as he could, Toni lifted Romano into his arms. He did not wake up, but gave a soft groan, and grasped the blanket more tightly with his fingers. Toni smiled, despite himself, and walked to the bedroom. He was frightened, terrified, by how light Romano was. Anger and frustration and guilt and sadness bubbled up within him but he pushed them away as best as he could. Grinding his teeth and forcing his breaths to slow. As he walked into the bedroom, he turned off the light with his elbow, and moved to the bed.

            He lay Romano down upon it and kissed his forehead once more. But as he pulled away to change into his pajamas, there was a pull on his arm. Weak and desperate yet so, so strong. He felt as if he were being pulled by the hand of a higher power, unable to resist, a slave to its command. He turned back and Romano had grabbed him, still asleep. A reflex. Without a second thought, Toni eased himself onto the bed beside Romano and took him into his arms.

            _“Estoy aquí, mi amor. Estoy aquí.”_

Romano pulled himself against Toni as tightly as he could, burying his face against his chest. Grasping at his sleeves, mumbling softly in the language of sleep. Toni held him as he would a child. Protected him, provided haven for him in the crook of his arms. Wanted nothing more than to be the protection, the escape that Lovino Vargas so needed.

            “Sleep. I’m here.”

            “Nonno...” Romano murmured. “ _Non lasciarmi.”_

In his time with Romano, Toni had gotten much better with his Sicilian. And these words he understood, and they cut through his flesh into his heart.

            _“Nunca...nunca.”_

He kissed Romano’s forehead again through his salty tears and fell asleep. Beginning to realize that this course they had taken was more dangerous than they had initially thought.

            _“Que descanses, mi amor.”_

 

* * *

 

            Am I what you need?

            Can I help you?

            What more can I do?

            Tell me.

            But...do you even know the answers yourself?

 

* * *

 

            Toni opened his eyes and met Romano’s. Cloudy and green. His face blurred, shifted, before coming into focus. Pale, speckled in the dim sunlight creeping in through the blinds. There was no hint of emotion on his face. It was there as it was. Toni blinked and then realized that Romano’s fingers were running along his cheek, his eyelids, his lips, his jaw, his hair. Toni could hear music in his touch. He felt sluggish and tired and there was the lingering taste of marijuana on his tongue and he was happy.

            “ _Buenos días, Romanito.”_

_“Bon jornu.”_

_“¿Qué tal?”_

Without a response, Romano leaned forward and put his lips to Toni’s. Then, after the fleeting moment of bliss, Romano turned and got out of bed. Toni watched him without moving. His limbs felt heavy and his eyes stung so he just lay in bed. He watched Romano strip down and grab a towel and walk into the bathroom. Closed his eyes and listened to the running water. He was happy that Romano had woken up and gotten out of bed and gone to shower on his own.

            Toni had managed to sit up and stretch and take a swig from the glass of water that had magically found its way to his bedside table (Romano hadn’t slept through the whole night, after all) by the time Romano came out of the bathroom. He moved to where he had thrown his bag and put on a clean shirt and a clean pair of boxers. He left his wet hair as it was. He didn’t say a single word.

            “Roma, will you do me a favor?”

            “What.”

            “Would you bring me my notebook?”

            “Jeez, you just woke up...”

            “I can’t help it when you look like that, _querido_ ,” Toni teased. Romano rolled his eyes and moved into the living room. Then he came back in and, just as he was about to toss the notebook to Toni on the bed, he paused.

            “I’m gonna read it,” he said.

            “Eh?”

            “You haven’t let me read any of it.”

            “Ah, y-yes, that’s because—”

            “Shut up, I’m reading it.”

            Toni sighed and rubbed his temples as Romano opened the notebook into which Toni had emptied every thought he’d ever had about Romano. The little scribbles he’d written about how beautiful he was when he slept, or how he’d never experienced such violent storms as he had when Romano was angry. How he looked when he drank coffee in the morning and how he tasted when Toni stole him away with kisses. How the shape of his body haunted his dreams and made his arms feel empty and unnatural when it wasn’t there. How he had befriended the lighthouse in a matter of moments and become the lord of that cliffside. And, of course, the scenes he had written from the novel in which Romano was to be the main character.

            He wasn’t sure if Romano was actually reading all of it. His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, he flipped through the pages. His expression unchanging.

            “What is all this?” he finally said, looking up from the book. “I don’t understand any of it.”

            “What is there to misunderstand?” he replied, blushing madly. “You know that I’ve been writing about you, no?”

            “I mean, yeah, but...” Romano’s voice trailed off. He looked back at the notebook. “What kind of stupid story is this?”

            “Which?”

            “The one about the little boy. The little Sicilian boy that goes to live with the Spanish general.”

            “Ah, that. An idea for my next novel. _¿No te la gusta?”_

Romano didn’t say anything. He just clicked his tongue and tossed the notebook to the bed over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen. Toni caught the notebook and grinned after him. Then he hurried to grab his pen before the words on the tip of his tongue disappeared forever. He wrote feverishly about how Romano’s face had looked when he had woken up. When he was finished and the creative juices flowing in his mind were exhausted, he hoisted himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

            “Start breakfast without me, okay?” he called. He didn’t receive a response. After his shower, he put on jeans and a flannel shirt, dabbing cologne behind his ear. He had planned out the day for them—the town of Holyhead wasn’t too far and he wanted to visit it, and there was a pub where they could have dinner, and they could take a nice walk on the beach. As he smoothed the styling gel (Moroccan Argan oil-infused, of course) into his hair, Toni walked out into the living room, expecting to see Romano at the dining room table eating his breakfast. Eggs, or toast, or porridge, or whatever it was President Kirkland had lying around.

            Instead, Romano was sitting on the floor, by the door leading to the backyard. He was hugging his legs to his chest and leaning his cheek against the window, his bare toes curled and his eyes empty.

            “Roma...?”

            Romano blinked, the only acknowledgment that he had even heard Toni.

            “Ah...do you want me to make eggs?”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “I can wash some tomatoes, if you’d like?”

            “I told you I’m not hungry.”

            “Some tea, then? Coffee?”

            “No, I don’t want anything.”

            “You should have _something_...”

            “Just lay off, would you?” he spat. Toni wasn’t sure why he was surprised. This wasn’t the first time that Romano had changed so swiftly, so dramatically, from one mood to the other. He just wished that he could pinpoint why. So that he might figure out what to do about it. He knew better than to approach Romano at that moment, so he moved into the kitchen to make coffee and grab a piece of toast. Was it because of the notebook? Because of what Toni had written? Or did he miss his brother?

            “Well, take your time getting ready,” he said. “I was thinking we could go down to Holyhead, and then to the beach, and there’s a nice pub—”

            “I don’t wanna go anywhere,” Romano interrupted. He hugged himself more tightly and banged his forehead lightly against the window.

            “ _Pero, querido,_ I think it’ll be better for you if—”

            “Why can’t you just listen _for once in your life!”_ Romano screamed, his entire body shaking. He turned over his shoulder to glare at Toni. “I said I don’t wanna go, bastard! Take your stupid guitar and just leave if you want, I’m not moving.”

            Toni was quiet. He could feel his face falling as his heart dropped to his feet.

            “I don’t wanna go,” Romano repeated. He looked out the window again. “Why can’t you get that through your big, thick head?”

            “ _Lo siento, Romano.”_

“You know what, go. Just leave. Go on your little day trip. I don’t want to see your face.”

            Only thirty minutes ago—less? more?—Romano had been stroking Toni’s skin and kissing his lips. But since then he had descended into himself, so far that even when Toni reached as deep as he could, until he felt his skin about to rip from his bones, he couldn’t reach him.

            He hesitated. This could have very easily been a trap Romano was setting for himself. But who was Toni to refuse what he was asking for so blatantly?

            “Is...is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you?”

            “You can do what I ask and leave. That’s what I want. _Vatinni._ ”

            “ _Vale.”_

Toni got his bag ready and grabbed a map and finished the rest of his cold coffee. Unable to breathe as he looked at Romano sitting there at the window. Still suffocating, choking, he put on his jacket and moved to the door.

            _“Lo que quieras._ I’ll be back later tonight.”

He wasn’t sure if he had just been imagining it, but he could’ve sworn he heard Romano say softly to his back, _Non lasciarmi._

Then he left.


	21. 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning, there's some pretty strong language in this chapter that can be triggering/offensive to people
> 
> but tbh it was one of my favorite chapters to write
> 
> i hope you enjoy it <3

21

Are you A God, Signor?

 

            _There is a boy sitting in an office._

_He is hugging his knees to his chest, sitting on an armchair, staring outside of the window. His eyes are red and puffy from the tears that he’s been crying, but he lacks the energy to keep weeping. At least for right now. He wants to see his brother. He wants to see Nonno. He wants to see his family in Sicily. He doesn’t want to be in Granada anymore. He is sixteen. He’s been here for three years already—he feels he should be accustomed. But every day brings a new wave of grief, a new wave of purposelessness, of being kept awake because the scars on his back are aching and reminding him of the redness of his childhood._

_There is a woman sitting on an armchair across from him. She has short hair and a pretty smile and is scribbling on a notepad. He has been in her office for two hours now. Today he doesn’t have an appointment, but he wasn’t sure where else to go. When he showed up at her door, struggling to breathe through his tears, she welcomed him and told him he was welcome to sit in her office if he’d like. So now he finds himself there, because this is one of the few places he feels some semblance of comfort. He likes to hear stories about her life in Belgium, because her voice is nice and perhaps it reminds him of his mother’s. Usually they meet twice a week. Today is the third time this week, though. An exception that she is kind enough to make because she has no other appointments._

_Now that there is silence, she asks him why he was crying. He tells her that he’s past the point of needing a reason to cry. Sometimes it just happens, he says. The tears rush forward in a wave of despair and he is incapable of restraining himself, even if he knows there is no reason._

_“If you tell me what’s wrong, I won’t tell anybody else. I promise,” the Belgian therapist says. He blinks and looks at her. The expression on her face is warm and believable and suddenly he wants to tell her. But he pauses. She doesn’t deserve to be subjected to his troubles. And he doesn’t deserve to deflect his burdens onto someone else’s shoulders. He turns his face away and leans his cheek on his knees, though he says nothing. She does not pester him, and he likes that about her. Previous therapists have pestered him, becoming frustrated with the fact that they can’t cure him. But she is patient and kind and she lets him be silent when he wants to be silent. She continues to work and he continues to stare vacantly at nothing in particular._

_But soon the burdens become too much and he decides to tell her._

_He tells her that it’s getting to be very frustrating, finding himself alone so much. He tells her that it’s hard jumping from friend to friend either because they distance themselves, or because he distances himself before they get the chance. He tells her that he wishes he had inherited some of the sociability of his brother, who has never had a problem making friends. He complains that he is so grumpy and antisocial and it hurts, but he’s not sure what to do. Now he’s rambling and he cannot stop and everything he has been feeling is spilling from his trembling lips. He tells her that he can’t sleep at night because he is afraid that his father will appear in his dreams to smack him senseless again. He tells her that he asks other boys at the school to fuck him, very hard, gives them the power to dominate, and still he cannot stand it when people make sudden movements around him because it scares him so much._

_He tells her that he’s sure he’s fucked up in the head. He’s a faggot. Just like they all say—maricón maricón maricón. Would it be better if I just killed myself to get rid of all this fear?_

_“No,” she replies with a somber smile._

_He asks her why, because he can’t think of a good reason except for his crippling lack of courage._

_“You deserve as much as anybody to be here in this world. I know it’s hard to believe it right now, but there are people who love and care about you.”_

_Nobody loves me. Nobody cares about me. Who would bother with someone like me? I’m worthless, dirty. My own family thinks so._

_“What about your brother?”_

_My brother has probably forgotten about me. It’s been three years. If I were him, I would forget about me, too. Why would I want to remember the person who made my childhood so hard? Made it impossible for me to be proud of myself, take pleasure in the hobbies and skills that made me happy? My brother doesn’t love me. How could he?_

_The Belgian therapist gets up and gives the boy a notebook and a pen, because she knows that he likes to write. He’s told her before. She puts her hand on his head and says, “I want you to make a list of everything you would miss if you weren’t alive anymore. Can you do that for me?”_

_He nods, feeling a bit more comfortable with the pen in his fingers, and he writes the list for her._

* * *

 

_My Sicily_

_Spanish tomatoes_

_Learning new languages_

_Gangster movies_

_Writing poetry_

_Rain storms_

_The Belgian therapist_

_Reading Latin American literature_

_Pasta_

_Fratellino_

* * *

Cheek pressed to the window, fingertips carving painful patterns into the floor just to feel the splinters digging beneath his nails. He was staring out, at the empty green, grey backyard, but he wasn’t really looking at anything. He could see his reflection in the window, could stare into the glazed look of the person there. He kept carving until the sting was numb, no longer enough to drown out the voices. He hugged himself more tightly, curled further and further inwards, trying to disappear. He hated the sight of the silent tears on his cheeks but he didn’t have the energy or the will to wipe them away. He didn’t know why they were there, and yet he couldn’t imagine the feeling of their absence. Alone in this house, the echoes of the closing door still ringing in its wooden caverns. He had at least been able to see Toni’s back disappearing.

            _I’m driving him away._

_Just like I drive everybody away._

_This isn’t different._

Romano suddenly thought about the cross that he used to wear around his neck when he was younger. Feliciano had worn one, too. But they had both left them behind. Romano brought his hand to his chest, grabbing the phantom cross. He had worn it every day, every night, even as he slept, until his grandfather had died. Then it had begun to feel awfully heavy and he hadn’t believed its right place to be there on his hollow chest. So he had discarded it. He still hadn’t asked Feliciano why he had stopped wearing his. Sitting, lost in the voices, Romano did something very out of character and appealed to God. He closed his eyes and he tried to pray. There was no method to his prayer—it was more of a plea, a desperate cry to the god that had left him behind so long ago. He wasn’t even sure what he was praying for. But he prayed. He could remember so vividly the last time that he’d prayed.

            He had been in a similar position. At the window leading out to the balcony in his room. The room in Rome that he and Feliciano used to share. He had been so awfully young. Too young, he mused, to have lost faith in God. He had been curled up just like this, bruised cheek against the glass, tiny trembling hand grasping the cross, staring out into the endless sky and saying, Help me, please, I don’t know what to do. Only to be met with silence and a fresh bruise the next day. So he had stopped praying. And he couldn’t believe that he was doing it now. There was nobody around for him to impress. Nobody for him to convince. Nobody but the voices.

            Hating himself for driving Toni away and for not being able to find any use in the divine words of prayer to a god he didn’t believe in, Romano dragged himself to his feet and immediately felt cold and heavy. His hair was curling in every direction since he had left it to dry on its own, and even though the room was chilled and the clouds outside left the cottage shaded and dank, he took off the t-shirt he was wearing and threw it to the couch. There was nobody around to see his scars, after all.

            _I wonder how people find solace in prayer._

_Who do they pray to?_

_How the fuck does He help?_

As he conversed with the cynical, atheist voices, he moved to the coat rack where his jacket was and pulled out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he had in the pocket. The tears had stopped. He put a cigarette into his mouth, walked back to the kitchen, cracked open a window, and lit up. The toxins filling his lungs felt so terribly good. He closed his eyes and breathed, breathed, breathed. Until he felt the stinging in his nose and the heavy taste, like charcoal, on his tongue. Then he let the smoke out. He opened his eyes. He leaned his palms against the counter and let his head drop, let his gaze fixate to the tips of his toes. Another drag. He thought about the words that he’d read in Toni’s notebook.

            “My Romano, he looks like an angel surprised to find himself on earth in the morning, buried in the blankets of sunlight and showered by my astonished gaze.”

            _What bullshit._

“My Romano, I like to watch him drink coffee. His lips curl over the rim and his eyes shimmer and the color rises in his cheeks, and I can see the tip of his pink tongue—the same tongue whose curves and edges painted portraits on my skin.”

            _Give me a break._

“My Romano, he is beautiful like a storm. The kind of storm that helps you fall asleep at night when you are tossing and turning and absolutely dreading the sun.”

            Romano grit his teeth and pressed the heels of his palms harder against the edge of the counter. Then he took another drag. He put one of his hands to his head because it was hurting like hell. And he couldn’t figure out why the Spanish writer wanted to write a novel about him.

            “A little boy, with red lips and brown skin hailing from the island of Sicily, sent to live with a general in Spain so that he may be protected.”

            It was so obvious what the story was actually about.

            _I am a child, though, aren’t I?_

_He’s like my soldier, I guess._

_Why did he leave again?_

_Oh, that’s right, I told him to._

Romano finished his first cigarette, crushed it in the sink, and lit up the second. Then, feeling the gaping hole in his chest growing only wider, he went to the corner of the kitchen and grabbed the unfinished bottle of wine that he and Toni had opened last night for dinner. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he poured it into the nearest glass and took a sip. How awful it tasted, he mused, mixed with the smoky tobacco. But he drank it anyway. After he had finished half the cup, though, he couldn’t drink it anymore, and he poured the rest down the sink. His head was hurting. He looked back at the bottle, standing on the counter like some sort of king. He imagined Toni in some fancy winery asking the woman, “Which would you recommend for a romantic night in?” It made him sick to his stomach. The bottle must have been expensive.             He grabbed it by the neck and he poured the rest of it down the sink. Watched the blood red liquid swirl around and disappear. He knew Toni wouldn’t care—Toni would be understanding. Toni would be upset, but he wouldn’t let Romano know that he was upset, and Romano hated that. He wished that there was more expensive wine for him to pour down the fucking drain in this fucking cottage. He suddenly felt a terrible shiver. He dropped the empty bottle into the sink and sat down on the floor, leaned back against the cabinets with their knobs and their edges cutting into his back. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until he was lightheaded and coughing. He turned on the lighter just to watch the flame and, at one point, he put his thumb against it just to feel the burn. It left a blister.

            He broke down and he sobbed for twenty minutes, unable to even finish the current cigarette. Then he was dry and empty again and couldn’t even feel what he was feeling. He was just floating in this vast ocean of nothingness, and when he tried to move, to swim up or down or left or right or forward or backward or _anywhere_ , he found himself stuck. He couldn’t pick himself up from his spot on the kitchen floor, not even to close the window when it began to rain. He tired himself out with who-knows-what and just sat there. When he was done crying he finished the packet of cigarettes. He closed his eyes. He saw a vision of his father approaching him from the other side of the room, hand raised, and he cringed and could’ve _sworn_ he felt the sting of Papá’s hand on his cheek.

            _Don’t hit me anymore, please._

Romano stood up and walked into the bedroom, swaying as he moved, unable to maintain a straight line. He collapsed onto the bed and grabbed Toni’s notebook from the nightstand. He opened it, but he didn’t read anything. He turned to the first blank page and grabbed the nearest writing utensil and began to scrawl giant words across the pages. Completely random words that made no sense—just a marker that he had been there.

            _I’m going to call Feli._

He picked up his phone, but he didn’t call Feli. He just sat in silence with his ghosts in this bed, listening to the voices, hating himself more and more for pushing one of the rare people who dared love him away.

            _Why didn’t you stay?_

_Why did you listen to me?_

_Why did you leave me here?_

An hour and a half passed and then he heard the door open and he buried his face in the pillow so that Toni wouldn’t hear his crippling sobs. He forced himself to calm down, listening to the sound of footsteps, jackets, shoes being taken off, keys clanging, familiar breaths. A confused, irritated click of the tongue as he moved into the kitchen and probably saw the cigarettes and empty wine bottle in the sink. Quietly, desperate and cold, Romano dragged himself from the bed and peeked into the living room. Toni was standing in the kitchen, hands on his hips, staring into the sink. Without a word, Romano moved behind him and put his arms around Toni’s waist. He leaned his forehead against his back and he squeezed. Breathed in his scent and cried into his shirt.

            “Roma...”

            “Why did you come back so soon?”

            “Because I knew you would want me to.”

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t actually want you to leave.”

            “I know. _Mi pobrecito Roma.”_

“I’m so sorry.”

            Toni turned around and brought Romano’s head to his chest and kissed his forehead, stroked his back.

            “I poured your wine down the drain,” Romano said. “I’m sorry.”

            “ _No pasa nada, mi amor.”_

“Do you still love me?”

            “Of course. I love you so much.”

            “Can we go to that pub you were talking about?”

            “If you want to.”

            “I want to.”

            “Then we’ll go.”

            “Okay.”

            “Just don’t cry anymore, _vale?”_

            “Sorry...”

            When Toni spoke to him in hushed tones like that, Romano didn’t hear the voices. He didn’t feel the same pain in his chest. It was a different pain. One bred from his heart being too full rather than being too empty. He thought that maybe, if he wasn’t praying to God, he was praying to Toni.

            _Are you a god, Toni?_

            _¿Eres un dios, Toni?_

“Where did you even come from?” Romano murmured.

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing. Come help me choose an outfit to wear.”

            “ _Vale.”_

* * *

 

At the pub, loud and rowdy and full of smiles and pints and English and Welsh words that Romano had never heard and couldn’t understand, he felt somehow at peace. They sat at the bar, drinking pints. Toni was making conversation with the bartender and the people around them, while Romano drank and occasionally made the offhand sarcastic comment. The Welsh, as it turned out, enjoyed his sense of humor and took a strong liking to him.

            “Oi, Spaniard, yer kid’s a cutie!”

            “Yeah? Then why don’t you suck my dick.”

            “Shh, Romano, don’t be rude!”

He never would have admitted it to any of them, but he was happy. Absolutely astonished, awestruck, that he could look up from his beer and see the love of his life sitting beside him, laughing, clinking cups with the people around him and letting his green eyes shine.

            _I can’t tell if I’m really lucky, or really unlucky._

_You’re a blessing and a curse._

_Please don’t ever leave._

They stopped at the beach on the way home and they sat in the sand and they stared at the ocean. Toni squeezed Romano’s hand and sang to him softly, fingers in his hair, gaze lost in the constellations.

            “ _Te quiero, Romano._ ”

            “Oh yeah? And what if you’re lying?”

            “I’m not lying.”

            “You can’t just say that and expect me to believe you. Like, when scientists try to tell you that those stars up there are just...what are they? Just gas? Why do we believe them?”

            “They have evidence to back them up.”

            “What about saying that the world isn’t flat. How do we know? Just because some fucking scientists tell us?”

            “What should I do to make you believe me, _querido?”_

“Um...I don’t know. Don’t ask me that.”

            “How about if I keep singing to you?”

            “Maybe.”

            “If I keep kissing you, just like this,” he murmured, putting a kiss to Romano’s temple. “If I hold you like this for the rest of your life, will you believe me?”

            He wrapped his arms around Romano and pulled him into his lap, and they sank together into the sand. They were shivering, but they were shivering together.

            “...Maybe.”

            _“Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero.”_

“There you go again.”

            “What, you’re not going to return the favor?”

            “That’s not how this works, idiot.”

            Toni laughed and blew against Romano’s neck, making him chuckle and push him away. Then they stood up and went back to the cottage, bidding the beach and the pub and the streets of Holyhead farewell. And Romano was dizzy with a combination of unbelievable happiness and crushing, devastating loneliness.


	22. 22

**22**

**My Heart Is Still Yours, Querido**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

 

In an unexpected twist, Romano fell asleep on the train ride back to the university, while Toni could not keep his mind from racing for more than a few fleeting moments. It should have been the other way around—after all, Romano could hardly fall asleep in his bed, let alone in a public place like this. He was leaning his head against the window, hands as a makeshift pillow, temple pressed to the glass with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Toni shifted his gaze from the landscape to Romano’s tranquil features, overcome with emotion and overwhelming affection. He was so vulnerable, sleeping like that. Was so beautiful and frighteningly fragile. Though Toni knew Romano would have been angry if he were awake, he reached up and brushed the hair from Romano’s face, felt the sleepy warmth of his rosy cheeks on the backs of his fingers. Te quiero, Toni thought. Te quiero en serio. And that frightened him.

            They had done it. They had escaped from the fray together, even if only for four days. They had had nothing in their thoughts but each other and the breathtakingly vast Welsh landscape that had welcomed them with generous, open arms. They had danced together into the middle of the night. They had sung for each other on the edge of a cliff overlooking an abandoned lighthouse, bathed in the echoes of a haunting flamenco. They had gotten high and cooked together. They had met new people and seen new places together. They had, inevitably, fought with each other. But they had, also inevitably, come back to each other, because there was nothing else they could do but that. Toni had loved Romano with so much intensity that he was exhausted.

            In fact, he felt drained.

            And he knew that Romano felt drained, too. Perhaps more so, for different reasons. But of one thing Toni was absolutely certain.

            This was taking everything they had.

            Not that Toni minded giving everything and anything for Romano. He would have done it gladly if it helped. If Romano would gain something from it. But Toni was convinced that that wasn’t the case. He was afraid for the future of their relationship, a facet he was positive Romano had either not considered or pushed from his mind altogether. Toni wanted, more than anything, to be the one to save him.

            But that was selfish, wasn’t it?

            It was, and Toni was starting to worry that he didn’t have what Romano needed. He wasn’t even sure what that was, and if he didn’t know, how could he provide it to Romano? Was his love enough, he wondered? Was he loving Romano in the way that he needed to be loved?

            His own doubts were terrifying him. The scenes kept replaying in his head. When he had seen Romano walking on his tightrope ledge so long ago. When he had broken down into tears of self-hatred on the cliffside and said to Toni, I don’t deserve you, and meant it. When, high but fully aware of his words, he had told Toni where his scars came from and still refused to believe that the nightmares and storms inside his head had anything to do with them. When he had told Toni to leave, he didn’t want to see him (and all the other times Romano had lashed out at him), only to cry in his arms upon his return. After smoking a pack of cigarettes and pouring half a bottle of wine down the drain. The memories of Romano holding him and loving him were blurred with the memories of Romano spouting insults and screaming at him. Toni wanted to be what Romano needed, so desperately, but he wasn’t sure if that was possible. If he had the ability.

            There was the issue of his marriage, of course, and the issue of his being a professor where Romano was his student. Those facts were getting more and more difficult to overlook. This couldn’t be an affair, he reasoned. Having an affair in the traditional sense didn’t usually involve falling this far in love, did it?

            As he watched Romano’s tired, sleeping face, he knew without a doubt that they were both being sucked dry. This love was worth it, surely. The sleepless nights and the useless fights and the headaches and the tears and the repetitive apologies. The moments of bliss were worth it. The mornings that Toni could wake up and see Romano’s face were worth it. The nights that he could hold Romano in his arms and feel that he was protecting him, shielding him, pouring all of his love into him, were so utterly worth it.

            But they were tired.

            As Toni’s mind raced, he noticed a woman sitting across from them, watching them with a vacant expression. He paused, then withdrew his hand from Romano’s hair and stared out the window. The woman, blinking from her trance, smiled at him and looked out the window, as well.

            “Long weekend?” she asked. Her accent was British—Manchester, perhaps? Though, there were so many different accents in the United Kingdom that Toni could never be sure.

            “Yes,” he replied. She nodded toward Romano.

            “He seems exhausted.”

            “He is. Usually he would never sleep on a train,” Toni said.

            “What were you doing up in Wales, if you don’t mind my asking?”

            “Just...taking a break. So I suppose it is strange for him to be so tired.”

            “Not at all,” she said. “Taking a break from something can often times require as much effort as participating in something. It’s all about where your mind is. I tend to believe it has very little to do with our physicality.”

            “Yes, you’re right,” he smiled. “What were you doing in Wales?”

            “Visiting family. Also extremely exhausting,” she chuckled. She looked to Romano again. “Are you two family, then?”

            “Ah...” Toni paused, wondering how to navigate this situation. She blinked at him, awaiting his response, as his mind fried in his skull. Since when had he felt this way about his relationship with Romano? Throughout the trip, until this moment, he had not even hesitated. “No, not quite.”

            She understood, and smiled.

            “Well, I hope you both got the break that you were looking for,” she said.

            “I certainly did. I can’t speak for Roma, though,” he shrugged.

            “I’d say from the look on his face that he did, too.”

            “Really?”

            “Of course. Look how soundly he’s sleeping. Well, I suppose I don’t know very much about him, but you can tell a lot about a person from the way they sleep.”

            “You think so, too?”

            “I do.”

            “Well...I’m glad, then,” he grinned. Romano shifted his position and, as if he were fully awake, grasped onto Toni’s arm and rested his head against his shoulder.

            “And he’s evidently very affectionate toward you,” she winked. Toni released himself to the warmth of Romano’s cheek against his shoulder and placed a kiss to his temple. Wrapped in his bittersweet cloth of pain and bliss, pricked by its thorns but replenished by its nectar. Loving Romano with everything that he had.

 

* * *

 

            They fell back into their patterns of secrecy and clandestine meetings. They gave each other curt hellos when they passed on campus, though they deliberately began to take paths where they knew they would cross. In class, Toni treated Romano as he treated every other student—with warmth, but with a certain distance that ceased to exist when they were alone together. Some days, of course, Romano did not even come to class. The same days that he would come to Toni’s office, withdrawn, and sit at the window without a word. Or sometimes with many, vulgar words. Things went back to the way they were.

            Except that things were totally and completely different. At least for Toni.

            That thread that held them together had become stronger, tighter, more impenetrable. Toni felt both lighter and heavier around Romano, felt both that he could breathe more easily and that he was suffocating. If he were feeling so conflicted, so frustrated, so exalted and so drained, he couldn’t imagine what Romano was feeling. And yet he kept coming back.

            One week after their trip, they were in Toni’s office. Romano was at the window, writing in his notebook, while Toni put his feet up and read through essays. Winter was starting to spread over the land, so the sunlight wasn’t quite as strong as he would’ve liked. It was days like this, gray and heavy, that he looked back and wondered what had convinced him to move to a place like England. But, sneaking a glance at Romano over his glasses, he couldn’t regret it at all.

            “What are you staring at?” Romano snapped. Toni smiled.

            “You wouldn’t believe it, but there’s an awfully beautiful person in my office that I can’t seem to stop looking at,” he teased. Romano clicked his tongue and continued to write, but he couldn’t hide the smile pulling at his lips and the red in his cheeks.

            “Oi, Spaniard.”

            “ _Dime.”_

“What are you making for dinner this weekend?”

            “Well—” Toni began, but he cut himself off. And his heart sank. “ _Joder_ , I forget to tell you.”

            “Tell me what?”

            “Ah... _bueno_...my wife...”

            “Oh,” Romano said. He turned back to his notebook but, instead of writing, tapped his pen against the pages over and over and over. “Right. Your wife is coming.”

            Toni didn’t bother apologizing, because he knew it wouldn’t even come close to expressing the sadness and remorse he was feeling in his heart. He could see Romano withdrawing into himself. By now, he knew his moods all too well. He was feeling like a burden right now.

            “Roma.”

            He didn’t respond. He just kept tapping the pen against the notebook. Toni could practically read his thoughts. He felt that he was making things difficult for Toni.

            “Roma, _neno, mírame.”_

Romano finally looked up, and Toni wasn’t surprised to see the tears on his eyes. He reached his arm up and wiggled his fingers, throwing the papers onto the desk.

            _“Ven aquí.”_

For a few silent moments, Romano just stared at him. But Toni held his gaze. Would not dare look away. Probably would not have been able to even if he’d tried. Finally, Romano stood up and stepped toward him. He fell into his arms, curled up in his lap, pressed his cheek to Toni’s chest. Toni held him and rocked him and stroked his hair and hummed to him the way that he liked. The same lullaby that calmed him down and reminded him of his mother. The air filled with silent promises of love and reassurances of affection transmitted through the touch of Toni’s lips to Romano’s feverish temple.

            “Is your heart still mine?” Romano murmured.

            “My heart is still yours, _querido_.”

* * *

 

            The night before María flew into London, Toni went out with François and Gilbert. They sat on the patio of a pub, drinking beers. François was smoking a cigarette. Toni was feeling awful, and his heart was so openly on his sleeve that this unusual mood was immediately clear to both his German and French friends. He was leaning his cheek on his hand, staring at the ashtray as François tapped his cigarette against it. Do all Frenchmen look so graceful when they smoke, he mused?

            “What’s the matter, _mon chéri?”_ François asked. “Something on your mind?”

            “Hmm?”

            “I’ve never seen you so...boring,” Gilbert added. He finished the rest of his drink and took it upon himself to take Toni’s. “It’s not already time for your midlife crisis, is it?!”

            “ _Madre mía,_ no,” Toni laughed. “Not a midlife crisis.”

            “Another writer’s block, perhaps?”

            “No, not that, either.”

            “But there _is_ something wrong.”

            “ _Bueno...”_

“Do we have to get you drunk for you to tell us?” Gilbert said with a raise of his eyebrows. Toni laughed despite himself, and asked François for a cigarette.

            “Can I ask you a question?” he said after a long, toxic drag. François leaned back in his chair and Gilbert leaned forward in his. “Have you ever been in a love that totally drains you?”

            “ _Ah, je vois._ I should’ve known this was about matters of the heart,” François chuckled.

            “Have you?”

            “ _Bien sûr.”_

“Not really,” Gilbert shrugged. “Not the kind that drains you, the way you talk about.”

            “I...well, I have a bad feeling about it, but I can’t imagine being without it.”

            “That is quite the dilemma,” François mused. As if he were thinking out loud. He put a hand to his blonde locks and brushed them from his forehead, staring upward at the stars. Though, there were very few to see behind the clouds.

            “Oh, that’s right. Your wife is coming tomorrow, _ja?”_ Gilbert asked. Toni responded with a nod of his head. He didn’t have the voice to say much else.

            “Ah, I can imagine your relationship to be difficult. She travels a lot, no?”

            “ _Sí.”_

“Any love that is true and pure—a love that makes you feel better than anything has made you feel before—is going to involve pain. _C’est inévitable.”_

“Wait, wait. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of love?” Gilbert interrupted. François lowered his head, blinking at him. He brought the cigarette to his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

            “ _Comment?”_

“Isn’t the point of love to be... _ich meine..._ easy? Simple? It’s supposed to make you feel happy and warm and awesome.”

            “Um...”

            “If you’re working too hard, it’s probably not a healthy love.”

            “I don’t think that’s always true, Gilbert,” François sighed. “A love can be healthy but involve a lot of strife. Right, Toni?”

            “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

            “Well...he’s French. Of course his ideas of love are dramatic,” Gilbert teased, taking another gulp of beer. François chuckled.

            “ _Mais oui...l’amour est un oiseau rebelle.”_

Toni laughed, as they fell into their rhythm of multilingual banter and gradual drunkenness. Their ideas bouncing around in his fuzzy head now. Gilbert and François, evidently, had completely different ideas of love. One was romantic, epic, passionate—the other pragmatic, reasonable, simple. Was it really unhealthy, Toni thought, if the relationship required struggle? Was complicated and confusing and draining? Or did that mean it was the purest and most true kind of love?

            “Speaking of love, I heard the most terrible rumor,” Gilbert said, a crooked smile on his beer-stained lips.

            “Oh?” François and Toni both looked at him.

            “I heard that the president was involved with a student.”

            “ _C’est des conneries,”_ François instantly snapped. Hardly giving Toni the time to feel the burning guilt. “I don’t believe you for a second.”

            “Like I said, a terrible rumor.”

            “ _Non._ I’ve known Arthur for years. He would never.”  

            Toni was silent, one handing gripping the cigarette and the other incessantly smoothing his eyebrows that didn’t need smoothing.

            “I don’t want to talk about this. It is an insult to his character to even entertain the ridiculous idea,” François said firmly. “The president of the university? With a student? _C’est vraiment des conneries.”_

They changed subjects, but not before leaving Toni feeling sick to his stomach. And each time he recalled the fact that his wife was arriving in London tomorrow, the feeling grew tenfold.

 

* * *

 

            He picked María up from Heathrow airport and she threw her arms around him, and she felt warm, and he hated himself for every moment that he held her. She was as ambitious and as beautiful as ever with her big brown eyes and her thick, southern Spanish accent, reminding him with every passing moment why he married her. And at the same time reminding him with every passing moment that he didn’t love her. His heart was elsewhere. Its pieces were scattered along the Sicilian streets.

            “How long will you be able to stay?”

            “Two weeks. Then I have to fly back out to Greece.”

            “ _Vale._ We’ll make the two weeks count.”

            Every word that left his lips tasted bitter. He closed his eyes and he saw Romano and he wondered if she could tell. When he held her, he was thinking about Romano. When they made love that night, and she held him close and whispered his name in his ear—undoubtedly thinking that he was just as desperate for her as she was for him—he heard Romano’s voice. As she slept in their bed, in the same side that Romano usually slept in, Toni was wide-awake. Unable to keep his eyes closed for even a second. He was drowning in his guilt, his hypocritical two-facedness. He was being unfair to his wife. He was being so terribly unfair to her. He had to imagine that it was Romano in front of him when he said, _te quiero_ , simply because she had said it first. Did she really mean it?

            That didn’t really matter, Toni decided. The fact was that she was wearing on her finger a ring that he had bought for her was what mattered. A ring that he had proposed with on the beaches of Cadiz on her 24th birthday. When she had fallen asleep, he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee and put on Carlos Gardel and sent a long, dramatic message to Romano’s phone. He received no response. He had expected as much. And sending it, as much as he’d hoped it would help, only made the burden on his shoulders heavier.

            Lo siento, María.

            Lo siento, Romano.


	23. 23

**23**

**Did You Know That I’m Fucking Your Husband, Signora?**

_There is a boy in a bathroom stall, getting fucked by another boy._

_The other boy is Italian. He is from Florence, with a penchant for marinara sauce and Michelangelo. The boy cannot completely relate because he’s only been to Florence once, and he can’t say that he has very strong feelings about Michelangelo. But they can speak Italian to each other, even though the Italian boy teases the Sicilian boy for his Sicilian dialect. He doesn’t mind. They speak in Italian and they understand each other, so there had been no misunderstandings when the Sicilian boy had said to the Italian boy, Would you like to fuck me?_

_As he holds in his whimpers, making sure that his shirt remains pulled down over his back, the boy’s hatred for himself grows. He wonders what the Belgian therapist would think if she knew what he was doing right now, during school hours, in the boys’ bathroom. He wonders what his brother would think—he can’t even imagine the look on his brother’s face. How big he must have grown. Surely he’s as tall, if not taller, than his older brother. The younger has just turned 16 years old. The older now seventeen and well-versed in getting fucked by other boys. He’s not proud of it, but he does not stop, either. There are only so many things that he can do to make himself feel wanted._

_He still writes letters to his younger brother every week and sends them to Rome. Though, for all he knows, his brother no longer lives in that house. For all he knows, his brother is across the ocean, in America or Canada. For all he knows, his brother could be dead, though the mere thought of that makes him sick to his stomach and awfully dizzy. No, he is certain that his younger brother, with his musical fingertips and colorful imagination and oh-so-brilliant talent (it has always been undeniable) is alive and well. So he writes him letters, even if he can never read them. It helps the older brother feel at ease, knowing that if is ever to meet his brother in the future he can say, Brother, I wrote to you every week._

_He has not heard from his father since he left for Sicily ten years ago._

_He’s not sure what he’s meant to do next year, when he turns eighteen and graduates from this academy. Find a university that will take a child (yes, still a child) whose mind is as scrambled as his, he supposes. He is going to ask the Belgian therapist to help him apply to schools. All over the world. He’s going to explore._

_But he’s not thinking of any of that right now._

_No._

_He’s thinking about how terrible the Italian boy’s breath smells on the back of his neck._

* * *

 

“You have to stay still, Lovi.”

            “Fine, fine, I’m sorry.”

            Feliciano smiled, peeking his head around the canvas.

            “ _Va bene_. Are you cold?”

            “No.”

            “Good. We still have a long way to go.”

            Romano clicked his tongue, did not smile back, but wasn’t terribly uncomfortable. They were outside, in his special place, the special haven guarded by the tree he so loved. Romano, for some strange reason, had agreed to sit as a model for a portrait Feliciano was painting. He was on the ledge, staring to the side with his hands in his laps. Whether it was for a class or for pleasure, Romano hadn’t bothered asking.

            “Why do you wanna paint me, anyway?”

            “Because! Do I really need a reason?”

            “Might as well just do a self-portrait.”

            “No, no, no—we may look alike, but I promise we are very different. Our differences come through in art, you know?”

            It had snowed very lightly the night before, so the ground was sparkling with the thin white blanket and the air was chilled. Romano had warned Feli that it might snow again today, which would ruin his paints and his canvas, but Feliciano had always been a little bit too optimistic.

            “Don’t bother smiling,” Feliciano had said upon beginning. “No offense, but you never really smile anyway. I want to capture you in the most natural way possible.”

            “Bite me.”

            Romano wished that he could see Feliciano’s face while he painted. When they were children, Romano had always liked watching Feliciano paint. He was such a carefree, absentminded person, but when he painted or played piano or sang, his entire persona took on a completely different comportment. Serious and intense and passionate, but romantic and genuine. He would stick his tongue out and narrow his eyes and would not stop even to brush the hair that had fallen into his face. Romano wished that he could see it.

            “You never told me how your trip to Wales was,” Feliciano said, his voice floating over the canvas.

            “It was nice. Boring as hell, though.”

            “Well, what were you expecting?”

            “I found an abandoned lighthouse.”

            “How nice!”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you feel refreshed now?”

            “No...not really.”

            He heard Feliciano sigh and regretted telling the truth.

            _I should’ve lied to him._

_Should’ve just told him that I’m fine._

_That my smile is genuine._

“Sorry,” he said. As always, not really sure what he was apologizing for, but feeling that he had to.

            “Guess what?”

            “What.”

            “I went to see your Spanish professor the other day. Before your trip to Wales,” Feliciano said. Romano snapped his head around, heart sinking, pulse speeding. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

            “You wha—?”

            “Stand still!” Feliciano cried, peering around the canvas. Romano did not return to his position. He just stared at Feliciano, brow furrowed. His fingers were balling into fists.

            “Why did you go see him?” he insisted.

            “I...Well, I know you two are close,” Feliciano began. He averted his gaze to the frosty grass. The paintbrush in his one hand, his other tapping incessantly against his leg. “I want to do everything I can for you, and I thought he could help.”

            _Everything you can for me?_

_That’s not fair, Feliciano._

“He told me that you’re a very talented writer. And that you have mood swings, and that...he can tell there’s a storm inside you,” Feli continued.

            Romano pictured Feliciano sitting in Toni’s office and he hated the image. His brother was always much more beautiful, much more bright, than he was. He made Toni’s office look better. He opened his mouth, ready to hurl a terse and irritated response, but found the words caught in his throat.

            “And he also told me that you’ve written about me,” Feli smiled. There were tears in his eyes and his smile was shaking and it cut to the very center of Romano’s shriveled heart.

            _That’s not fair at all, Feliciano._

“You know what doesn’t seem right to me, _fratellone?”_

Romano was afraid that if he spoke, the torrents in his eyes and on his lips would come spewing forth. So he remained silent.

            “That we love each other so much, and we care about each other so much. But I believe you, and you don’t believe me. Even when I tell you.”

            “Because everybody lies. Even if they don’t mean to.”

            “I’m not lying to you, Lovi,” Feliciano whispered. He stood from the canvas and walked, slowly, careful with every step, to where Romano sat. He bent down and grabbed both of Romano’s hands in his and brought them to his lips and kissed them with his salty, tear-stained lips. Even in the warmth of Feliciano’s embrace, Romano felt very cold. He could hardly feel Feliciano there. He stared at his hands vacantly. Feliciano knelt to the ground, ignoring the wetness of the grass. He rested his head in Romano’s lap.

            “Do you remember when we were little, and you used to sit at the window and read. And I used to paint little drawings for you, or play piano for you?”

            Romano nodded his head.

            “And then at night, when everybody thought we were asleep, we would sneak downstairs and Nonno would tell us stories?”

            Romano nodded again, his mind and his heart now elsewhere.

            “I think Nonno always favored you,” Feliciano said, a combination of a sob and a laugh in his throat. “He always told the stories that _you_ wanted.”

            “Feli...”

            “And when you left, he had to tell only the stories that _I_ wanted, so I tried to pick the story that you would’ve wanted to hear every night.”

            Feliciano was weeping now, his tears falling into Romano’s legs.

            “I used to have a little calendar in my room, and I would write in big pink letters on the days that Nonno and I went to visit you. And I would cross off the days leading up to it. It was always my favorite weekend of the month.”

            _“Mi dispiace, Feli...”_

“Do you remember how much fun we used to have in Sicily? After just a few months you knew the streets of Palermo so well. We would play hide and seek, but I was terrible at it. You could always find me. Like you could read my mind and knew exactly where I would hide.”

            “Mhmm. I remember.”

            “But even when I came to visit you, when we went to sleep at night, you were still crying. Just like you used to in Rome.”

            Romano bit his lower lip and closed his eyes tight, tight, tight.

            “I didn’t think you could hear me,” he murmured. “I always thought you were asleep.”

            Feliciano began to vigorously shake his head.

            “And when Nonno died all I wanted to do was go see you. I wanted Papá to let me see the letters that you wrote me, because I knew that he was hiding them from me. I wanted to know all about your life. I wanted to take care of you, just like Nonno asked me to.”

            “Just like...?” Romano’s voice trailed off, and he felt Feliciano squeeze his fingers. It began to snow. Very lightly. They could hardly feel it.

            “I let you down, I broke my promise to Nonno. I didn’t take care of you. Even when I knew what was happening, I didn’t protect you. I didn’t do anything for you.”

            _Stop this, Feliciano._

_You’re breaking my heart._

“You didn’t think that I knew,” Feliciano cried. “When we were just children—when you were so innocent. You didn’t think I knew where the bruises came from, or what you and Papá were doing when he took you into his study. Why you cried yourself to sleep every night...of course I knew. How could I not have known?”

            _You knew?_

_You knew the whole time?_

“I’m so sorry, Feli.”

            “And still I didn’t do anything! Even when I knew!”

            “You couldn’t have done anything.” Romano felt such overwhelming remorse that it made him sick to his stomach.

            _Why didn’t I hide my bruises better?_

_Why didn’t I sob more quietly?_

_Why did I have to put this burden onto my baby brother’s shoulders?_

“But I’m trying to help you now, _fratellone_ , I’m really, really trying,” Feli sobbed. His entire body shaking. “I’m trying to make up for it all, _lo giuro_. I’ll make it up to you. I will.”

            “You don’t deserve this burden...”

            “Just don’t push me away, please,” he begged. He kissed Romano’s fingers again. “Don’t keep me locked out. I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing you like this and not being able to help you.”

            _My poor, beautiful baby brother._

_My fratellino._

_Let me be a martyr._

_Don’t take on my burden._

_I don’t want that for you._

“I need to keep my promise to Nonno, I need to take care of you, I need to help you. Let me help you, Lovino. My big brother. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”  

            “I’m the big brother. I’m supposed to be saying this to you.”

            “No, no, no,” Feliciano said. Over and over and over. “I just...I hope that you can forgive me. I hope you don’t hate me. I don’t want you to hate me.”

            _Of course I don’t hate you._

_How could I hate you?_

_The baby brother that holds my hand and smiles when I forget what affection feels like?_

            “Lovi.”

            “ _Se?”_

“If you don’t want me around anymore...I mean, if that will make things easier, I’ll leave. Whatever will make you feel better.”

            Romano squeezed Feliciano’s fingers as hard as he possibly could and brought his lips down to the top of Feli’s head.

            “That’s the last thing I want,” he whispered. His voice cracked and broken. “I don’t ever want to leave you again.”

            “ _Mi dispiace molto_ , Lovino. For not protecting you.”

            “Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

            Romano was walking to class with Kiku and Alfred the next week. He wondered how Kiku could deal with such loudness, such intensity first thing in the morning. The day had started with loud knocking and eagle noises at their door, to which Romano had responded by throwing a pillow at the door and letting a string of Sicilian curses flow from his mouth.

            “Don’t know what you just said, dude, but it’s time for class.”

            “Stupid fucking American.”

But it had done the trick, and Alfred and Kiku had convinced Romano to walk to the main academic building with them. Their boots crushed the light film of snow on the cobblestones as they walked, and when they spoke, they could see their breath in the air. Romano had his bag over his shoulder and was daydreaming, thinking for some strange reason of the beautiful and kind woman who had counseled him during his time in Granada. He wondered what she was doing, and hoped that she was happy, wherever she was. He regretted not being more kind to her. Kiku and Alfred were having an argument about which anime was best (“Fullmetal Alchemist over Naruto any day, bro!”), and, as always, Alfred was being sure to project his voice across the whole of the United Kingdom.

            “Oh hey, writer Prof! What’s up?”

            Romano brought his head up and found himself face to face with Toni.

            “Ah, _hola_...Alfred, was it?”

            “Yup. Nice to see you again.”

            “You as well. Hopefully the semester has been kind to you,” Toni chuckled. His gaze finally flickered back to Romano, who was grasping the strap of his backpack and trying to keep his heartbeat steady. Romano looked away instantly. Toni was not alone. There was a woman at his side, her arm linked with his. She was olive-skinned, with dark eyes and dark hair tied back from her smiling face. She was beautiful. And he knew that she was his wife.

            “Are these students of yours, Antonio?” she asked. She spoke English with an accent that was much less heavy than Toni’s.

            “Nah, not me. We’ve only met once,” Alfred smiled.

            “Kiku Honda. It is a pleasure,” Kiku said with a slight bow.

            “And you?” the woman said, turning her too-bright smile (frighteningly similar to Toni’s) to Romano. He blinked, searching desperately for his voice, but unable to find it in the panic of his mind.

            “This is Romano,” Toni said slowly.

            “Ah! The writer! Antonio has only told me wonderful things about you, Romano,” the woman exclaimed. “María. The pleasure is mine.”

            _María._

_Did you know that I’m fucking your husband?_

_¿Sabía que estoy follando su marido, Señora?_

“Pleasure to meet all of you. I want to get to know this place where my husband spends all his time,” she continued. “You all seem like very bright students.”

            “They are. Every student here, I’m sure,” Toni nodded. Romano knew that he was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the snowflaked toes of his boots. “ _Bueno_ , don’t let us interrupt you. Hurry off to class.”

            “Sure thing, Prof.”

            Toni and his wife, flashing one last blinding smile, walked past them. Down the road, the opposite way. Alfred and Kiku continued walking. Romano could not bring himself to take another step forward.

            “Romano-kun...?”

            “I just realized that I forgot something in my room,” he heard himself say.

            “Oh, all right. See ya later then, dude.”

            Kiku and Alfred waved as Romano turned and walked back the way he had come. At the end of the road he took a sharp turn to the right and walked up the stairwell to his haven. He lay down on the snowy grass, taking in the numbing pain of the cold against the vulnerable parts of his skin, and he cried and waited for the ring of the bell tower. When it came, frightening him as it always did, he took his notebook out and, though his hands were shivering from the cold, wrote an entire poem about how beautiful Toni’s wife was.


	24. 24

**24**

**Let Me Get Your Medicine, Querido**

         _Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

 

* * *

 

         Toni, to his own surprise, was able to hide very well from María that he was having an affair (though he still despised using that term to describe his much more complex relationship with Romano) for the entire two weeks that she was visiting. Although, he couldn’t credit his own actions or abilities. Romano had apparently taken it upon himself to create distance. He didn’t come to Toni’s office at all in those two weeks, and he skipped class, as well. He only occasionally answered Toni’s text messages, with terse responses making it clear that he wanted his distance. For which Toni couldn’t at all blame him. He tried to put himself in Romano’s shoes and couldn’t imagine the terrible weight he was carrying. As much as Toni had tried to keep Romano from feeling it, he knew exactly what was going through his head: I’m just second best, I’m a burden to him, I’m ruining his marriage. So he was creating the distance that he believed Toni wanted.

         But Toni felt empty and alone when, in the afternoons that he spent in his office, Romano wasn’t there. It was the opposite of what he wanted. He wished, instead, that Romano came to sleep at his window. Even if he didn’t say a single word or allow a single touch, Toni wanted to be near him. See his face in the waning winter sunlight. He realized in Romano’s absence how unaccustomed to loneliness he was. His office was unnaturally empty. He found, yet again, that he could not write for the life of him. There was too much brightness, too much silence, too much warmth in his office. His fingers and his mind lost their ability to coordinate without the storm in which Romano constantly bathed him. But most frightening of all was the abrupt sense of a lack of purpose. It was unexpected and it was profound and he hated himself for it.

         Toni was, in a terrifying sense, dependent on Romano’s dependence.

         He wanted something to protect, something to shield, something fragile and weak to carry on his back. María was not dependent on him, not like Romano was. She had her life, her ambitions, and he had his.

         He could not fathom that there was such selfishness in him. Such conceit to think, He needs me. And I need to be needed.

         But that couldn’t be all of it, could it? The entirety of his feelings for Romano?

         No, because that wouldn’t explain the elation he felt on the rare occasions that Romano laughed. It wouldn’t explain the fire erupting on the surface of his skin, in the spots where Romano touched him. It wouldn’t explain all the sketches he wrote about every single detail of his face, his body, his soul as he’d shown it to Toni’s hungry eyes. Sketches about the raspiness in his voice after half a pack of cigarettes or just waking up. Sketches about the coarseness of his hair and how he just couldn’t take care of it. Sketches about the freckles dotting his skin and the old, beautiful scars that told stories on his hunched back. At the peaks of his loneliness, Toni wrote down every insult he could remember Romano hurling at him and translated them so that he could recreate Romano’s angry, childish voice in his head and laugh.

         He wondered if the man who’d given Romano those scars could map them out the way that Toni could.

         One night, while they were drinking tea and sitting in bed, María asked if she could read the doodles in his notebook.

         “I want to know what you write about all the time,” she smiled. A very pure-hearted smile.

         “I don’t know...they’re very rough drafts.”

         “Maybe I could even help you,” she teased, pulling down lightly on his ear. He smiled and gave her the notebook—a second notebook that he had started using purely for his novel brainstorming, thankful that he hadn’t used Romano’s name even once. He curled up beneath the covers while she flipped through the pages, smiling softly, sipping her tea. He looked up at her and remembered being inspired by her beauty upon their first meeting.

         “You get more talented every time you put pen to paper,” she sighed. “The story about the Spanish general and the Sicilian child...”

         “Do you like the idea? I want it to be my next novel.”

         “I love the idea. It’s very magical.”

         “I’m still not sure how I would end it.”

         She put the notebook on the nightstand and curled up beside him, grabbing his hand and holding it to her chest.

         “I think you should kill the Sicilian boy in the end.”

         “Kill him?!” Toni cried. He felt utter terror take root in his soul. “ _Dios mío,_ why?”

         “It would be a tragic and poetic ending for the general, no?” she continued. “He dedicates his life and his love to protecting this child, after all the terrible things he’s done, only for the boy to die in the end.”

         “And the general notices all his sins collecting at his heels.”

         “Exactly.”

         “Maybe you should write it, huh, María?” he winked. She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose, while he prayed that she couldn’t hear the skips and jumps of his constricted, fearful heart.

         “Hey, Antonio, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

         “ _Dime.”_

         “Why don’t you wear your wedding ring?”

 

* * *

 

         The day before María’s departure to Greece, in between his classes, Toni went to visit President Kirkland in his office at the old main building.

         There were two reasons for his visit. One was that President Kirkland always insisted that if Toni ever needed help, he could come to him. The other was that Toni couldn’t stop remembering the rumors that Gilbert had mentioned. About Arthur Kirkland being involved with a student. Though Toni certainly didn’t know President Kirkland as well as François did, he didn’t find it to be a terribly farfetched idea.

         “Ah, Antonio. Please come in.”

         “ _Gracias_.” Toni gave an anxious smile and sat in a large armchair opposite Arthur’s grandiose mahogany desk. He looked as regal as ever, back straight and hair coiffed and everything absurdly clean. He had bookshelves filled from top to bottom, the books organized by subject. The office was simply and tastefully decorated, with a Persian rug, Chinese vases, and a plethora of international souvenirs and trinkets along the shelves and on his desk. And, as expected, there was a teapot on his desk next to a Queen Elizabeth bobble head. It was all very British.

         “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to receive your message,” he mused. “But I am, of course, happy to meet with you all the same. Tea?”

         “Yes, please.”

         “Earl Grey all right?”

         “Of course.”

         “Wonderful.” Arthur smiled and poured the tea into his beautiful cups. He handed one to Toni. “Now then. How can I help you?”

         “I...well, I wanted some advice,” Toni began. He wasn’t used to hearing his own voice tremble. He took a sip of tea.

         “Something the matter?”

         “Yes, actually,” Toni sighed. Arthur raised his eyebrows and gestured for Toni to continue. “ _Bueno_ , I’m worried about one of my students.”

         “Ah, I see.”

         “I think that he’s very bright, and very talented. But he’s come to me with some very deeply rooted issues.”

         “Your reaction?”         

         “Well, I’m trying to help, but...I’m worried that I’m hurting more than helping.” Toni needed a way to disguise the true issues.

         “How so?”

         “How should I put this,” Toni mumbled. “I don’t want him to become dependent on me for help. I don’t want to keep him from reaching a point where he can simply depend on himself. Does that make sense?”

         “Certainly, certainly.” Arthur grabbed the handle of his cup, but did not drink from it. “It is dangerous for people of that age to become overly dependent. Not to mention the burden that kind of dependency places on you.”

         “No,” Toni snapped reflexively. Arthur blinked at him in surprise. “It’s not a burden. Not at all. I want to help him as much as I can.”

         “I see...”

         “ _Lo siento_. I didn’t mean to snap at you, President.”

         “Not at all,” he smiled, “but I do think I see the problem now.”

         “You do?”

         “Yes.” Arthur drank from his tea and clasped his hands together atop the desk. “Your fear is the student being too dependent on your assistance. I’m sorry to say it, but it seems that you may have an issue of dependence as well, old boy.”

         “That’s what I was afraid you’d say,” Toni laughed dryly.

         “It’s perfectly normal. We all like to feel needed. It’s inherently human.” Arthur reached up and began to tinker with a miniature American flag on his desk, and a faraway look took over his emerald eyes. “But we have to be terribly careful. Otherwise we begin to trap those who needed us in the first place. As much as we love to feel depended on, we tend to let that lead to putting those who depend on us in danger of losing themselves. Eventually, we may reach the point where we believe people need us when, in reality, they don’t.”

         “How can you tell when you’re at that point?” Toni murmured, hands shaking and heart in his throat.

         “It can be difficult to tell, no doubt about that,” Arthur sighed. “It’s the point where even they are convinced that they’re dependent on you, and can’t imagine another way of living.”

         Arthur Kirkland looked up into Toni’s eyes, and Toni understood then that Arthur could see straight through him.

         “I just want to do whatever I can to help him,” he said quietly.

         “A potential course of action depends on the relationship. I wish I could give more specific advice, but I’m not aware of the nature of your relationship with this student,” Arthur said. Lying through his teeth, but tactful about it. “One option might be distance.”

         “But...how do I know that won’t just hurt him more?”

         “I suppose you can’t know that. Though I would advise that you not confuse your own desires with what you think are his.”

         “What do you mean?”

         “I don’t think it’s intentional at all, if this is the case, but you cannot be selfish about this sort of thing. If distance is what he needs, even if it’s not what you want, then you should give him distance.”

         “Ah.”

         “It’s painful. And it’s not fair. I know,” Arthur continued. He was still tinkering with the American flag. Staring at it. “But we need to do what’s best in the long run. If it means short term pain, for the ultimate benefit of each other, wouldn’t that be preferable?”

         “I suppose.”

         “Even the student may not understand. He may be confused and angry. But you must remember: you are the professor, and he the student. As much as he, or even you, may believe otherwise, you are much wiser. You have much more experience. You understand more than he does. You...ultimately, you know what’s best better than he does. Do what’s best for him.”

         Toni knew then that the rumors were not true.

         At least, not completely.

         “You may have to make sacrifices for his benefit,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry, Antonio, but it will hurt. It will hurt terribly.”

         “Isn’t that what it means to be a professor in the first place?” Toni said with a smile. “Making sacrifices for your students?”

         Arthur smiled back, releasing the flag and lifting his teacup.

         “Right you are, my friend. Right you are.”

 

* * *

 

         Romano still didn’t respond to any of Toni’s messages over the weekend. Toni, in his inherent optimism, gave him his space. María was gone, on a plane to Greece. But Toni still felt the heaviness of her presence. It was weighing him down, as much as he tried to ignore it.

         He was in his office on Monday afternoon, at his window, taking his siesta. The entire office was dark and grim, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exhausted. He was in that strange place, that dimension between sleep and wakefulness, staring at the spinning, blurry ceiling. When the knock came at his door, it startled him so much that he nearly fell.

         “Y-yes? Come in,” he called.

         In all honesty, he hadn’t been expecting it to be Romano. So when he saw his familiar face appear at the doorway, saw his frail frame walking into his office, he felt filled to the brim with emotion.

         “Romano!” He sat up on his elbows, about to get up. But without a word, before Toni could make another move, Romano walked up and climbed onto him, resting his head against Toni’s chest and intertwining their legs. Toni fell back down and held Romano as tightly against him as he could. Even he had been unaware of how desperate he was to feel Romano’s touch. To feel his body fitting into the mold of his arms.

         “ _Mi amor. Te extrañaba.”_

_“¿En serio?”_

_“Claro.”_

They took their siesta together, making sure that the door was locked and they were shrouded in sufficient darkness.

         They didn’t talk about María. And Toni didn’t tell Romano about his meeting with President Kirkland. Toni needed time to work out the conflicting emotions inside him and fully understand what he was meant to do. But at that particular moment, he couldn’t fathom the idea of being without Romano. So he let things run their course. Things went back to how they’d been before María. Falling deeper and deeper in love. Toni, in all his years of romance and drama and passion, had never felt a love like this. Nothing had ever even come close. He had never felt something so strongly with every fiber of his being, every inch of his soul.

         The winter holidays were coming up.

         “Are you doing anything for the holidays, Roma?”

         Romano had come down with a bit of a cold. He wasn’t used to this kind of weather. He was sitting on Toni’s couch, holding a cup of hot chocolate and wrapped in a blanket.

         “Going back to Sicily,” he grumbled, his voice hoarse. “Back to Palermo.”

         “Ah, how nice. Are you excited? “

         Toni put on some opera, which, as he learned recently, Romano loved, and dimmed the lights. The only opera he even owned was Carmen. He sat down on the couch beside Romano and put his arm around his shoulders, kissed his feverish cheek, held him close.

         “I guess. At least I’ll be able to eat something other than fish and chips and your stupid paella.”

         “You don’t like my paella? That hurts,” Toni teased. He ruffled Romano’s hair and kissed him again. He looked very cozy, nestled in his blanket and holding his mug and letting Toni’s arms wrap earnestly around him.

         “Feliciano is coming with me, actually,” Romano said quietly.

         “Oh?”

         “He doesn’t want to go back to Rome. He wants to come see Sicily with me. I don’t know why.”

         “Well...why not?”

         “His home and his family are in Rome. His heart is there—I know it is.”

         “But you’re his family, too, no?”

         Romano looked up from his mug into Toni’s eyes, and his lips pursed. Curling into that frown that was too often on his lips. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something, but he closed it again and looked away. Silent as Toni twirled a lock of his hair between his fingers and worried about the day that Romano would no longer be next to him.

         “At least he’s not bringing the stupid potato with him,” Romano sighed.

         “Potato...?”

         “This German bastard who likes to hang around Feli. I can’t stand him.”

         “ _Dios mío_ , Romanito, can you stand anybody?”

         “No.”

         “Not even me?”

         “Especially not you, asshole.”

         “ _Ai, mi corazón...”_

“You’re so full of shit.”

         “And still you put up with me! How generous of you, _querido_.”

         Toni gave Romano a large, exaggerated hug, swaying and blowing raspberries against his cheek and neck.

         “Oi, stop it!”

“ _¡Que te quiero!”_

“Let go of me, you big jerk!”

         And, even though Toni was smothering Romano’s face against his chest, he could hear the laughter trembling on Romano’s voice, and it was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. As he held his Romano, his beautiful and scarred young lover, he tried not to think about what Arthur Kirkland had said to him. And he tried not to think about the conclusions to which he himself was coming. He couldn’t bear to think that maybe, just maybe, this relationship wasn’t what Romano needed. Maybe this relationship wasn’t what _Toni_ needed.

         Maybe Toni wasn’t enough for Romano.

         “Romano?”

         “What?”

         “ _Te quiero tanto_ ,” he said. “ _¿Me crees?”_

_“Nun lu saccio.”_

_“Vale._ Have you taken your medicine today?”

         “Which?” he scoffed. “For my cold, or for my fucked up head?”

         “For your cold and for your lovely, inspirational head,” Toni said. He pulled away and looked into Romano’s eyes, put his thumbs against their wet corners and watched the shadows play in their amber lights.

         “Neither.”

         “Let me get your medicine, _querido_. In your bag?”

         “Mhmm.”

         Toni got up from the couch and began to walk toward the door, where Romano had discarded his backpack. But before he could take another step, he felt Romano tug his sleeve.

         “Wait, Toni.”

         “ _Dime, cariño.”_

“I...I love you, too.”

         Toni blinked the tears from his eyes, but couldn’t ignore the British voice in his head.

         _“I’m sorry, Antonio, but it will hurt. It will hurt terribly.”_

He kissed Romano’s fingers and got his medicine for him.


	25. 25

**25**

**Have You Ever Tried Sicilian Wine, Signor?**

         _There is a boy writing madly on his computer._

_He’s filling out university applications in his room. He cannot remember the last time that he’d felt so motivated. He has a list of universities beside him, his notebook, a pack of cigarettes, and tomato juice. Every few moments he takes a sip. Lights another cigarette, reminding himself to open a window and light incense later to avoid making his roommate angry. He’s on his fifth application. Just yesterday, he and the Belgian therapist compiled a list of schools he could apply to. And she said to him, “You are very bright. You have the potential to get into some very prestigious schools.” He even agreed to put a German school on the list, as averse as he is to attending university in Germany. But he absolutely refuses to apply to school in Rome._

_He needs a change of scene. He needs to leave this place that he’s been in for over five years now. He needs to feel that he can accomplish something, that he can explore this world that has been so cruel to him and find the good parts that have been hiding from him. He’s found some in Granada. He’s found the beauties of a Spanish language and a rich history and a kind culture not dissimilar from his own. But the cloud that he’s carried with him remains, and Spain is now tarnished by it. He’s finding it more and more difficult to keep the good memories at the forefront of his mind. No. He remembers nights spent in his bathtub, debating the true use of a razor. He remembers running to the bathroom in the middle of the school day so that nobody can see the tears on the verge of his eyes. He remembers frightening other students when he snaps at them, insults them, screams when they try to touch him or come near him._

_He needs to go somewhere he can make new memories._

_He applies to school in Germany, in Austria, in Great Britain, in America, in Canada, in France. He knows exactly where his brother will go to university—he knows that that course has been planned out for him from the beginning: a prestigious institution in Vienna. And, for some reason, though the boy has agreed to apply to the same institution, he knows that he will not go there. He does not want to go to Vienna. He does not want to be in the same space as his innocent younger brother. He does not want to bring that burden back to him, does not want to bring the memories back. He does not want to make things harder for his brother._

_His favorite school on the list is, by far, the one in Great Britain. But he’s worried that he’s not smart enough to get in._

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure what time it was. Two, three, four in the morning. The hours and the minutes and the seconds blended together when darkness fell and the stars came out to play. Romano was in bed. He could feel the mattress rock with Toni’s breaths. By now, after countless nights, sleepless, beside him, Romano knew every minuscule detail of Toni’s breathing when he slept. He could predict which direction he would sleep in, how his legs would be positioned, could tell when he was dreaming and when he wasn’t. When his dreams were nightmares and when they were honey sweet. His breaths were like a song playing over and over again in Romano’s exhausted insomniac brain.

         Romano’s pillow (Toni’s pillow, actually) was wet. And Romano was facing the window, his back to Toni. There was an uncharacteristically large space between them, even in this not-so-large bed. They had gotten into an argument before bed. A ‘lover’s quarrel,’ as some might have called it. Romano had started it. He always started it. And he always ended it.

         _Can’t I hold my tongue for one fucking second?_

_Can’t I restrain my temper?_

_Can’t I just deal with things normally?_

Romano regretted getting into the argument. He was leaving for Sicily tomorrow morning—leaving for three weeks. Three weeks without Toni’s touch, three weeks without hearing Toni’s voice, three weeks without seeing Toni scribbling in his notebook and knowing that it was about him. But Romano had let the anger, the jealousy, the pettiness get to him. So now they were in bed, a line of pillows between them that Romano had placed there—don’t you dare fucking touch me if it weren’t fucking two in the morning I would fucking go home you stupid fucking piece of shit—before waiting for Toni to fall asleep. Toni had tried apologizing.

         _Not like you have anything to apologize for._

_Not like you actually did anything wrong._

Usually it took Toni about fifteen minutes to fall asleep. But that night, it had taken him two hours. Laying there, trembling because he was trying so hard to hold the tears back, Romano had waited. Waited for him to fall asleep. Waited for his breaths to fall into their rhythm. But it had taken him so long. Why had it taken him so long? Was it because he knew that Romano was angry with him? That Romano was so sad, so upset, so anxious, that he felt his insides twisting and curling and squeezing themselves dry? He couldn’t care that much, could he? He had tried to call Romano’s name.

         “...Romano? Are you asleep?”

         He had been met with silence. But Romano knew that Toni was smarter than that. Toni was always aware of whether Romano was asleep or awake.

         “ _Te quiero, Romano.”_

He had said it so quietly. Whispered it. As if afraid that someone might steal away his words as he spoke them if they were too loud. While Romano squeezed the pillow beneath his head and stared at the window and tasted the familiar salt of his tears.

Now he was certain that Toni was asleep. He sat up, gently, in the bed and leaned back against the headboard. He stared at his shaking hands in his lap. What had they argued about? Romano couldn’t remember.

         _María, I think._

_Señora Carriedo._

_Beautiful, successful, lovely Señora Carriedo._

He wondered if his mother had looked anything like Toni’s wife.

         Romano looked at the other side of the bed, over the stack of pillows, at Toni’s curled frame. He always looked much smaller when he slept. He wasn’t a small man, no. He was taller than Romano, and he was muscular. But curled on his side, hair matted to the pillow, grasping at the sheets to cover his bare torso, he really did look small. Romano put a hand to his temple in an attempt to rid himself of the terrible headache that suddenly gripped him.

         _I love you, I love you so much._

He wasn’t sure if it was anger or pride that had kept him silent in the face of Toni’s apologies. He could never discern his own motivation. He had stopped trying a while ago.

         Tomorrow, he would be back in Sicily. Back in the familiar streets of Palermo, where the people would understand and welcome his language. Where he could recognize each building, each cobblestone, could feel close the grains of sand on the beaches and the slang with which passersby called out to him. And he would be with his brother, his beautiful baby brother, the light at the end of the tunnel of his strife, the reason he had given himself to smile.

         Tomorrow, he would be without Toni.

         Another wave of anguish came over him and, gripped with it, Romano could hold himself back no longer. Slowly, calmly, he removed the pillows. One by one, tossing them lightly to the bottom of the bed. He heard Toni groan in his sleep. Once the pillows were gone, he burrowed back beneath the covers and inched closer. He put his forehead to that spot, open and beautiful, between Toni’s shoulder blades, and he wrapped his arms around Toni’s stomach. He fit his legs behind Toni’s, where his knees bent, and he squeezed. Spread his fingers out across Toni’s chest and kissed his skin. Toni groaned again, shifted his position to fit into Romano’s quaking body. The chill that Romano had been feeling disappeared in the instant that Romano touched his lips to Toni’s back.

         “Mm...Roma...?”

         Instead of answering, Romano squeezed harder and pressed his cheek against Toni’s back. He felt Toni’s hands come up and encase his fingers.

         _“¿Estás bien, neno?”_

“No.”

         _“Ven.”_

Romano closed his eyes. Let himself go where Toni led him. He felt the covers come up over his head, felt two strong, steady arms take hold of his body. Felt their legs intertwining, wasn’t sure which were his anymore. Felt a sweaty palm against his neck, felt lips heavy with desire and affection press to his as he kept himself encased in this darkness. His fingers clutched at Toni, clutched at him desperately as their lips and tongues and breaths collided. They were completely covered by the bed sheets.

         “I’m sorry,” Toni breathed against his mouth, pulling away for a moment. Romano began to shake his head, lips parted, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”

         He kissed Romano again and it was like a drop of rain in a desert. I love you’s crashed against their ears in different languages and in the silence of their kisses. Romano thought about Sicily as Toni kissed his lips, his cheeks, carved his affection into the tender, vulnerable skin of his neck. He imagined himself walking along the streets of Palermo, hand in Toni’s, blushing as the sea air surrounded them. He thought about what it would be like to make love to Toni in the room that he had grown up in.

         _I suppose I’d have to let you try Sicilian wine._

_I’ll bring some back for you._

_Have you ever tried Sicilian wine?_

_¿Has probado vino Siciliano, Toni?_

“Let me love you one last time before you go to Sicily,” Toni whispered in Romano’s ear. Romano, gripping Toni’s shoulders, nodded his head. Toni’s arms snaked under his and held him, as he breathed words of lust and affection into Romano’s ear. His limbs became weak, his thoughts blurred, his soul fiery. Everything turned red, everything turned into desire and passion. And Romano wondered what had possessed him to put that wall of pillows there in the first place.

 

* * *

 

         “Lovino! _Assai avi ca nun ni videmu!”_

“ _Ciau, Ziu.”_

His uncle, perhaps believing that Romano hadn’t grown terribly in the past half-year, refrained from the salutatory hug or kiss on the cheek. He stood on his doorstep, hands on his hips, smile as warm and comforting as ever. Romano managed a soft smile, adjusting the strap of his bag. Then, in a sudden spurt of affection and confidence and, more than anything, lack of fear, he put his arms around his uncle’s neck.

         “L-Lovino?”

         “I missed you, Ziu.”

         “I...I missed you, too, _picciriddo.”_

Romano wasn’t lying. He meant it. He hadn’t been home in half a year and already he felt the Sicilian air invigorating him. Reviving him. He knew that his uncle would be surprised at his relatively open affection, his openness to being held, his lack of a particularly foul temperament (for the moment, anyway).

         “Ah, and there’s little Feliciano,” Ziu said when Romano pulled away. With relative ease, Ziu switched from Sicilian to Italian—easier than for Feliciano to switch from Italian to Sicilian. “ _Benvenuto_. It’s been a while, no?”

         “Yes, it has!” Feliciano, who had been standing eagerly beside Romano, leaned in for the two kisses on the cheek. Always so much more social and friendly. “How long...?”

         “A little over six years,” Ziu sighed. “You’ve grown so much. Sometimes I forget how similar you and Lovino look.”

         “Ugh, don’t say it,” Romano hissed, throwing the door to the house open. He felt its arms wrap around him, its light encasing him. He breathed in the familiar air. A smell he couldn’t quite pinpoint, but the smell of the closest thing he had ever known to a home. The same smell that Ziu had.

         “Yeah, we do, but he’s darker like you. He got that from your side of the family,” Feliciano laughed. “Sometimes I get really tan in the summer...?”

         Already Feliciano and Ziu were laughing together, making jokes together, reminiscing together. The three of them were now reliving the days when they had been younger and Nonno and Feli had come to visit them here in Palermo.

         “That little pastry shop you always used to love is still open—we could go after dinner, if you’d like?”

         “We’d love to! Right, Lovi?”

         “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

         But he was secretly very excited to go to the little pastry shop with Ziu and Feli. He just wished that Nonno and Toni could go with him. He wanted a moment, one moment, to be surrounded by the people he loved. Though he knew it would never be possible.

         After he and Feli were finished getting settled in, they set off to familiarize themselves once more with the streets of this city. Romano, at least, could never forget them. He walked as if he had never left their soil, as if he had never gone off to Spain and then to England. The city was so welcoming to him. They passed by buildings and Romano reminded Feliciano of what they all were, reminded him of the stories told in this alleyways, while they fell into nostalgia and became drunk on the memories hanging in the air. They laughed, they joked, they drank Sicilian wine and they ate Sicilian food and Feliciano tried his best to speak Sicilian. And still, every person they met knew without a doubt that he was from Rome.

         Feliciano and Romano slept in the same room, even shared the same bed. Ziu offered to sleep on the couch, but they refused.

         “If your back is still as shitty as ever, you’d better not,” Romano sighed. “We’ll just share the bed. That okay, Feli?”

         “Of course! Like when we were kids. Remember?”

         They were tired. They fell asleep almost instantly, backs turned to each other and hands grasping pillows and the scent of Sicilian wine still on their breaths.

         “I’m so happy I get to come here with you, Lovi,” Feliciano murmured, his voice drifting off into sleep. “So happy...are you happy, too?”

         “Yeah. I’m happy.”

         “Good...we’re going to have so much fun here...aren’t we?”

         “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

         “I can’t wait. _Buona notte. Ti amo.”_

_“Bona notti.”_

T’amu.

 

* * *

 

         They went to the beach almost every day, though they didn’t swim very often. It was a little bit too chilly to swim. Romano and Ziu, when he wasn’t working, took Feliciano to all the big tourist attractions: the Palermo cathedral (“I know I’ve seen so many cathedrals but please can we see it again?”), Palazzo dei Normanni, the Archeological Museum, the Teatro Massimo, the city squares. They spent hours and hours roaming through the streets, stopping in Romano’s favorite cafés, learning tidbits and fun facts from Romano’s uncle who, Romano was convinced, had been a tour guide in another life.

         “Did you know that Palermo is actually derived from Arabic?”

         “No, I didn’t! How fascinating.”

         “You knew that, right, Lovino?”

         “Of course I did, who do you think I am.”

         “Speaking of which, have you continued your Arabic studies?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Wonderful!”

         “Lovi! You should teach me Arabic, too,” Feliciano cried.

         “You can hardly speak English.”

         “Ow, that’s rude.”

         They ate as much as they possibly could, they went shopping, Feliciano learned Sicilian and took in the sights of the city and made friends with practically every person they came into contact with. The light followed him wherever he went; people, strangers, even, flocked to be around him. Ziu, Romano knew, was as taken with Feliciano as ever. And Romano was taken with him, as well. He had always felt so blessed that someone like Feliciano, whose smile could make the sun shine brighter, was his brother. That someone like Feliciano, bright and talented and beautiful and selfless, could love someone like him.

         One week after their arrival, after they had just woken up and before Ziu went to work, he told them that he had a surprise.

         “I’ve been preparing it since before you got here, and it’s finally ready!”

         “Oh, geez.”

         He took them to a small garage, separate from the house. With Feliciano’s help, he opened the manual, old-fashioned door. Inside was a large figure, covered up with a tarp. The garage smelled of oil and paint.

         “Tada!”

         Ziu whipped off the tarp to reveal a bright red, beautiful Vespa.

         Romano’s heart stopped in his chest. He nearly dropped the mug of coffee he was holding and his breath was caught in his throat.

         “Ziu _..._ you...?”

         “I remember you mentioning before you went to Granada that you’ve always wanted a Vespa. So I went ahead and got one! Didn’t have a lot of money so I got it pretty old, but I think I managed to fix her up well. Don’t you think?”

         “It’s amazing!” Feliciano cried. He jumped forward, examining every part of the beautiful machine. While Romano stood, struck silent, staring at the amazing and indescribable scene before him.

         “Feel free to take it out for a spin. It’s all yours, _picciriddo,_ ” Ziu said, pinching Romano’s cheek lightly. “I’m off to work. Don’t get into too much trouble, boys.”

         When he was gone, and Romano had managed to slightly regain his composure, Feliciano grabbed his arm.

         “Lovi! We have to ride it. Right now.”

         “N-now?”

         “Yes! Now.”

         “I don’t...I don’t actually know how to drive one.”

         Feliciano raised his eyebrows and winked.

         “Who do you think you’re talking to, _fratellone?_ I’m Roman, remember?”

         “Yeah, but I don’t trust you to drive it. You’re too reckless.”

         “Hey, don’t say that! I’m great with Vespas!”

         Romano couldn’t deny, staring at the red scooter, that he wanted desperately to ride it. He’d always wanted one because he’d believed that it would make him feel like he was flying in the absence of his inherent ability to do so. He didn’t have the right wings for it.

         “Come on, Lovi, pleeeease? We can ride it along the beach!”

         “... _Nun lu saccio_...”

         But before he could even finish, Feliciano had jumped onto the Vespa and turned it on. It revved, loud and musical, and Romano flinched. Feli smiled up at him, eyes shining.

         “Hop on! Hold onto me as tightly as you want to,” he laughed. Romano hesitated for a moment, before finally swallowing his pride and his fear and taking a seat behind his baby brother. “Hold my waist tightly, okay?”

         “Go slowly.”

         “No way! That’s no fun, trust me.”

         “H-hey, Feli, wa—!”

         And suddenly they were flying. Romano screamed, not of his own will, as his stomach flew from his open mouth and he grasped onto his brother’s slim waist.

         “Woohoo!” Feliciano cried as they raced through the street.

         _“Statti!”_ Romano heard himself yell. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, squeezed, felt the air whip at his cheeks.

         “Relax! I won’t let you fall, I promise,” Feliciano screamed over the rush. “Open your eyes, Lovi!”

         As frightened and as surprised as he was, Romano could find nothing in his hammering heart but trust for his brother. He could do nothing but obey his whims. Slowly, fists digging into Feliciano’s stomach, he opened his eyes. He saw the blur of the houses rushing by, the people who watched them race (much faster than the speed limits dictated) past, amused smiles on their faces. The wind whipped his face, his stomach found its place again, the sunlight rained down on them. They turned corners rapidly and gracefully—Feliciano had been telling the truth. He knew how to drive it like a dream. Even though they’d only been here for a week, Feliciano had memorized the routes down to the beach. He drove down there, occasionally taking a shortcut that Romano pointed out to him with his trembling fingers.

         Then they found themselves by the sea. On a paved path that ran on a cliffside parallel to the beach. Silence overcame them, broken only by the gears of the Vespa shifting. Romano gazed out at the sea. Its brilliance, its blueness, was blinding. Its vastness unfathomable. It sparkled and gleamed and sang to them in the sunlight. They could see sails rising up, tiny and blurred, in the distance. Could see people on the beaches, could see it all stretching out as if just for them. While they drove smoothly, flew, along this path made especially for this moment. He heard music blasting in his mind, beautiful music, and he was tempted to reach his arms out and feel the pressure of the wind against them.

         Romano had been right.

         This was the closest he would ever get to flying.

         _This is what it’s like?_

_Hair whipping my face, wings outstretched?_

_Looking at the ocean and breathing in my Sicilian air?_

“Lovi!” Feliciano cried.

         “What?”

         “Are you really happy?”

         “Huh?”

         “I said, ARE YOU REALLY HAPPY?”

         “YES!”

         “GOOD!”

         Feliciano glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, just to flash Romano his shiny, genuine, good-hearted smile. And it made Romano smile, too.

         “EYES ON THE ROAD, BASTARD!”

         “SORRY!”

         They flew. They soared.

         And Romano made sure to buy a special, expensive bottle of Sicilian wine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about five chapters left! almost there!
> 
> thanks everyone for reading this story and sticking with it. 
> 
> i hope you're enjoying it!
> 
> xoxo


	26. 26

**26**

**Do You Want My Advice, Querido?**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

* * *

         Three weeks.

         Toni would have to go three weeks without Romano by his side, without Romano lying next to him in bed, without Romano’s temper tantrums and insults and inevitable declarations of undying affection. Toni would have to go three weeks without feeling the overwhelming love, without being able to wrap his arms around the trembling, slender figure of his dark and tormented love. It hurt him to think like that—not to mention the fact that they hadn’t been able to spend much time together since María’s departure. He was awfully lonely. He missed Romano. He missed being on guard, knowing that Romano could burst into his room at any moment, arms either wide open or tightly shut. He missed having conversations in Spanish, Italian, Sicilian, English—declaring love in any language conceivable.

         It snowed every day the week following Romano’s departure to Sicily. The first few days, Toni stayed in his apartment, watching the flakes dance against his window and listening to Juanjo Dominguez. He tried to write, and even managed to get a few pages in, but it was difficult. He needed a lot of wine and Romano’s voice in his head to even write a single word. He was suddenly worried about finishing this novel; María had liked the idea, and he was of the opinion that it would be popular at least to the masses, if not to literary critics. But he wasn’t sure if he had the heart to finish it, especially if he were to kill the Sicilian boy in the end. The way that María had suggested. Would that be fair to his muse, he thought? To kill him? It didn’t seem right and, though he admitted it was the most fitting end for the Spanish general, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to go through with it. He made a note to talk to his editor, a charming Mexican man named Eduardo, about it.

         Sometimes he would walk into the kitchen and expect to find Romano rummaging through his fridge, searching for the tomatoes that he so loved, and then he would laugh at himself when he found himself alone. Other times, when he was getting ready to go into the shower, he would pause and peek his head into the bedroom to ask Romano if he cared to join him—and would, again, laugh at himself when there was nobody there to say, “If you insist” or “Shut up, dirty old pervert.”

         Before he went to bed every night, he would send a little message to Romano’s phone.

         “ _Buenas noches cariño, te quiero y te extraño. Que descanses, y que te disfrutes en Palermo con tu hermanito.”_

He tried to do it in Italian once, but he woke up the next morning with a kindly worded message telling him how strange and formal it sounded. So he decided to stick to Spanish. But he and Romano didn’t talk much other than that; Toni figured that Romano was busy. And he was, from the bottom of his beating Spanish heart, so happy for his Romano. He was happy that Romano could travel somewhere and feel at home, that he could spend time with someone other than Toni and feel welcomed, that he could be so busy and so swept off his feet that he didn’t have time to respond. Once, though, Romano sent him a beautiful picture. It was of him and his brother, cheeks brushing, holding the phone and taking a picture with the sea spread out behind them. Feliciano, his skin and hair much lighter, was smiling and holding the phone and using his other arm to hold tightly to his brother. Romano seemed to be in the middle of yelling at him, but there was a red fluster in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. He looked happy. They were leaning against a Vespa. The caption read, “missing your stupid tomato face.”

         _“Que guapitos,”_ Toni responded.

         In the evenings he would go out with Gilbert and François, sometimes get drunk and sometimes not. He was grateful that they were there to distract him and listen to him and make him laugh.

         But still. Toni was lonely.

         After a few days, though Toni didn’t like snow very much, he became sick of staying cooped up in his apartment during the day. So he put on a large coat, a scarf, gloves, a red and yellow hat, and large black boots, and went to take a stroll across campus. He considered bringing his notebook, in case inspiration were to unexpectedly strike, but decided against it knowing that he would rather die than take his gloves off in this cold. When he had asked Arthur upon his arrival whether it snowed much, Arthur had assured him that it didn’t. This year, apparently, was an exception.

         Toni felt himself drawn to the spot at the top of the stairwell, with the tree and the ledge, where he had secretly witnessed Romano’s breakdown. He listened, in the absence of another voice at his side, to the sound of snow crushed beneath his boot as he made his way there. He had his hands in his pockets and his scarf drawn up around his mouth and nose, his hat pulled down over his ears. It wasn’t snowing very hard, but it was chilly enough that every few moments a shiver overcame his body. The sky was blue, with gray clouds slowly languidly rolling by, and the ground around him was a very pure, very bright white.

         As he walked up the stairs, he heard a soft voice and froze. Somebody else was there, and in an uncharacteristic moment of antisocialness, Toni considered turning back. But even as he told himself to go a different way, he kept walking up the stairs, until he emerged into the alcove. There was somebody else there—someone that he recognized, sitting on his back in the snow, his gloved hand sitting lightly on the trunk of the barren tree. He was wearing a jacket similar to Toni’s, gloves, a red, white, and blue scarf. Even dressed more lightly than Toni, he didn’t look as cold. And even from this distance, Toni recognized him. It was the American boy, Alfred. He must not have noticed Toni come up, because he continued talking to himself. Quietly, but animatedly. Tapping his fingers against the tree’s trunk and pausing every few moments to catch his breath. Toni couldn’t hear what he was saying, and hesitated before moving toward the tree.

         “ _Hola_ , Alfred,” Toni said. Behind his foggy glasses, Alfred’s blue eyes shifted and he sat up. His dry lips turned into a smile.

         “Oh, hey writer Prof,” he said.

         “You can just call me Toni.”

         “Sweet. You can call me Al, if you want. I don’t really care what you call me, to be honest.”

         He had a very easy way of conversing. He could speak to somebody he had only just met as if they were his best friend. It reminded Toni of himself. He could fall into conversation very easily with someone like Alfred.

         “You didn’t go home for the holidays?” Toni asked.

         “Nah, it’s far and expensive. Not really worth it to fly across the pond, in my opinion,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen enough Christmas trees in New York to last a lifetime, anyway. And I have friends who are staying on campus too so I’m not lonely or anything.”

         “That’s good to hear. Is your family in New York?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Do you miss them?”

         “Um...” he paused. Then he smiled again, gently, and began to play with a loose thread in his right glove. “Yeah, I guess. Can’t I say that I’m real desperate to go back though. I think I miss New York City more than I miss actually being at home...does that make sense?”

         “ _Claro.”_

“I like the UK. People here are nice. Even out here in the middle of nowhere.”

         “You’re right.”

         “Like, I know I’m American, but somehow being here makes me feel even more American,” he chuckled.

         “I feel that way, too.”

         “Do you miss Spain?”

         “Very much. But I like to travel. I’m not used to staying in one spot for very long.”

         “Me, neither. I moved around a lot as a kid. I was born in DC...lived in Los Angeles, Houston, Cleveland, Chicago, Boston...been in the Big Apple for the last five years. My family was pretty surprised when I decided to come here for uni.”

         “Ah. It’s a very prestigious school, though.”

         “Yeah, no, it definitely is. I’m glad I got in,” he smiled. “To be honest I didn’t think I would.”

         They fell into an awkward silence, and suddenly Alfred’s scarf evoked images of Arthur Kirkland tinkering with the American flag in his office in Toni’s mind. He wondered why Alfred had been talking to himself.

         “Hey, Toni.”

         _“¿Sí, mi hijo?”_

         “Do you mind if I...um, do you mind if I rant a little?”

         “Rant?”

         “Yeah. I mean, sometimes I like to come here and rant to the tree. You probably heard me, actually. I’m not crazy, I promise. I just...I like to talk out loud when I’m having problems. And sometimes it’s nice if someone’s listening. You don’t have to give me advice or anything.”

         “Ah, _bueno_...feel free, but don’t you think it would help to talk to someone who knows you better?”

         “I always find that it’s more useful to talk to someone who doesn’t know me. Then they’re not totally prejudiced or whatever,” Alfred shrugged. He was still playing with the loose thread. “If it makes you feel uncomfortable you don’t have to. I know it’s probably weird, a student who doesn’t really know you asking this.”

         “ _No pasa nada._ You can rant to me if you need to, _hijo_. It’s my job to help students.”

         “Cool. Uh...well, I was telling the tree before you got here that I’ve really been feeling like shit lately. I mean, not just lately...but _especially_ lately.”

         Alfred paused, and scooped up a handful of snow. He poked holes in it with his finger and Toni watched it melt in his hands.

         “You know how if you’ve had a lot of responsibilities for a long time, you feel like you can handle it? Like, you’re confident in yourself and sometimes you even feel like you could take on the world. You feel like you’re strong, and like you’re a hero. And it’s the best feeling in the world.”

         As he spoke, his face lit up. The stars in his eyes sparkled and Toni could see the pride, the excitement, the confidence in his whiter-than-the-snow smile.

         “You feel like you can do anything. And you tell everyone that. Like, hey guys, look! I can do it! I can really do it. And they know you can, too. They know you can because...well, they’ve been relying on you to do it. You’ve been their hero the whole time. You’ve been holding them up when things get rough. The world is on your shoulders, and it has been for ages, but you don’t mind because you’re strong. You’re really fucking strong.”

         His smile became smaller, his fingers stopped moving, and his eyes became vacant.

         “Then your shoulders start to hurt. But by that time nobody’s thinking about you anymore. You’re like...you’re like the hero that’s always there, but everyone has forgotten about because you’ve been there for so long, with the same responsibilities. But your shoulders really, really hurt. You have too many responsibilities and you don’t have anybody to help you. And when you try to ask for help people tell you that they can’t help you—how could they? How could they possibly help you do something that you’ve been doing for so long, how could they possibly help someone so much stronger than they are? You know? And now you feel taken advantage of, and neglected. And you hurt. You really hurt. You feel like it’s your fault. You’re supposed to be the hero, the one holding everyone up, the strongest of the strong. You’re not good enough anymore, you’re not good enough for anyone.”

         The snow in his hands had melted. Toni watched the muscles of Alfred’s face twist from relaxed to tense, and felt the pangs of sympathy and compassion inside his vulnerable heart.

         “But you can’t tell them that. You can’t tell anyone that. Not just because you’d feel like a failure, a total idiot, but because...I mean, they’re not listening anymore.”

         Toni couldn’t say that he understood, because he didn’t. He had no idea.

         “And then finally, you find someone who might share your burden. You find someone that makes your heart feel all fuzzy, someone that makes you want to be the hero again because they make you stronger. You feel strong again. Damn, do you feel fucking strong. Because someone else is taking the time to tell you that you are. You don’t feel so neglected...”

         Tears, large and shining like diamonds in the winter sun, streamed down Alfred’s flushed cheeks.

         “And then you’re not good enough for them, either.”

         He quickly wiped the tears, and then brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on top of them.

         “They’re not by your side. They’re not there anymore to tell you that you’re strong. That you’re a hero. You’re still alone because you’re not _fucking good enough_.” He smiled again, but it was a small, sad, dry smile.

         “And you had been thinking, wow. I found somewhere I can be the real hero that I can be. I found it. I found home. Because your old home doesn’t feel like home anymore—the people there don’t care. What matters there is when you fuck up and the world comes crashing down and everyone thinks, what happened to him? Why isn’t he doing his job? And you don’t wanna go back there, you don’t wanna go back to a place where the only time you’re noticed is when you fuck up. When you’re not good enough anymore.”

         Alfred Jones was terribly sad. Toni could see that.

         “But no matter where you go you’re not good enough. The new home you found doesn’t want you.”

         He dropped his voice to a murmur, so quiet that Toni could hardly hear him.

         “He doesn’t want me.”  

         “Al, _querido_ , do you want my advice? I can’t promise I can really help but I can try.”

         He nodded silently.

         “I think that it takes a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a lot of struggle to find a real home. Sometimes home is not a single place, but many places that are pieced together to give you different things that you need. And sometimes places you thought were home weren’t.”

         Toni paused, swallowed, felt the lump grow in his throat as the words struggled to surpass it.

         “But the hardest part is when you think you’ve found home, but in the end, it’s not. It’s not the home that you thought it was, or the home that you needed.”

         “What if you _know_ that it’s home, you really _feel_ like it’s home, but they tell you that it’s not? They push you out of it, even if you wanna stay?”

         “That’s even harder, because sometimes you can’t see the side that someone else can.”

         “Wh...what do you mean?”

         “When we have so many responsibilities for so long, like you said, we can lose sight of what’s really best for ourselves. We think we know what we need, and how to get it, but we can be wrong. Very, very wrong. We can make mistakes and we can be blinded by what has happened to us in the past. That’s why we need other people in our life to support us, and tell us that something isn’t good for us when we are convinced that it is.”

         “But if it’s really right, why does it hurt so damn much?”

         “In the short term, of course it will. That’s why we can’t see that it’s right.”

         “I just feel abandoned. I don’t feel like it’s helping me.” Alfred paused, took a deep breath. “But I guess I’m not the only one who’s hurting, huh? Some hero I am. Pretty selfish, right.”

         “No, not selfish. But you’re young. You have a lot to learn. Don’t force yourself to find your place—you’ll find it.”

         Alfred began to draw patterns in the snow, and Toni felt a pain constricting his chest. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

         “Hey. Did you end up finding a muse?”

         “Eh?”

         “A muse. Did you find one? Did you get over your writer’s block, or whatever?”

         “Oh. Actually, yes.”

         “Awesome! Glad to hear it.”

         Alfred’s smile at that moment, genuine and wide, made Toni’s entire being flare up. His eyes were still wet, his lips shaking, his fists clenching at the cloth of his pants, but he was smiling. It was a smile from deep down, it was a smile of gratitude and hopefulness. Toni did his best to smile back, but he worried that it might have looked more like a grimace.

         “Thanks for listening to me, Prof. Hope I didn’t bum you out.”

         “I just hope I was helpful.”

         “Definitely.”

         “Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it.”

         “Right. See ya around.”

* * *

        

         François invited Gilbert and Toni to his flat for wine, cheese, and supposed ‘fine dining.’ Not much to Toni’s surprise, the cuisine was unfathomably delicious, the wine aged and elegant, the cheese sharp and mild and everything in between. When they had finished the meal, they grabbed their wine goblets and François turned on his electric fireplace and they sat on his spotless, white sofas. Toni had always been awed by François’s grace and elegance, but he was even more so in his own home, his own kitchen, pouring wine into his own goblets. Toni forced himself to be at ease here, with his friends, his companions.

         “Ah, I can’t say I enjoy winter very much, but I don’t mind nights like this,” he sighed, sinking into the pillows. He crossed one leg over the other and lit a cigarette. Even his ashtray was beautifully carved diamond.

         “I agree. I like the sun much more,” Gilbert nodded. “But I have to say, I prefer beer to wine.”

         “Germans are all the same,” François sighed, throwing a wink in Toni’s direction. Toni grinned and took another sip of his wine. He wondered what sort of troubles François and Gilbert were having at that moment. Family troubles? Financial troubles? Romantic troubles, like himself?

         “Oi, _amigos_ , can I ask you something?”

         “ _Bien sûr, chéri.”_

“What’s the most memorable love affair that you’ve ever had?” he asked. Gilbert and François both raised their eyebrows.

         “Memorable like...good or bad?” Gilbert replied.

         “Either. Just most memorable.”

         “ _Eh_ , _bien_...a tough question...I’ve had so many lovers,” François began.

         “Stupid Frenchman,” Gilbert sighed. “I’ll go first then.”

         “Even _I_ know Gil’s story,” François interrupted. “Did you know, Toni, that Gil was engaged?”

         “Engaged? No!”

         “ _Oui.”_

“To whom?”

         “This gorgeous Hungarian girl,” Gilbert blurted, a crooked smile on his face. He ran a hand through his silver hair and leaned back. “We had been friends since childhood, and she asked me to marry her. I said yes.”

         “ _¿Y entonces?”_

Gilbert shrugged.

         “We were too similar. Confident, intense, loud, feisty—we realized that we couldn’t handle being together for long periods of time. We loved each other, but we were too much. We wore each other out. The flames died and that was that. She ended up marrying some Austrian man a year later.”

         “Ah...”

         “But it was a hell of a time.” Gilbert was smiling softly and staring into his wine. He puckered his lips and whistled. “ _Verdammt,_ a real hell of a time.”

“That’s beautiful.”

         “ _Ja,_ it was. Would’ve been hell if I’d married her, though.”

         “What about you, François?”

         “I had an affair with a man from _La Cote d’Ivoire_ once. He was so beautiful, so strong. But so very kind and gentle. Married, of course, but we still had a very passionate affair.”

         “Married?”

         “ _Oui_.”

         “Why was it memorable?”

         “It was the most romantic affair I’ve ever had. One time, I asked him if he loved me, and he said, in his beautiful French, ‘ _Comme la lune aime la mer, mais pas comme le mari aime la femme_.’ I asked him what he meant. It was from him that I learned how many loves there are in the human heart. You can never love one person in the same way that you love another—this is why we are so drawn to affairs, even when we are convinced that our marriage or relationship is a happy one. It is because one person cannot always give us every single love that we need. It does not mean we do not love our partners. It just means we love them in a different way than we love someone else.”

         “That sounds like a load of romantic _Kuhscheiße_.”

         “Yes, for someone of limited romantic scope such as yourself,” François shot back. Toni could not insert himself into their banter, for he was too focused on picking apart what François had told him.

         “What about you, _chéri?_ Your most memorable romance?” François asked, bringing Toni from his murky thoughts.

         “Mine? _A ver...”_

“Not your wife, then?” Gilbert cut in.

         Toni smiled, sipped his wine, and shook his head.

         “No, not my wife.” He considered telling him that his most memorable romance was at that very moment, with the nineteen year-old student from Sicily, whom he loved more than he thought it possible to love anyone or anything.

         But he decided against it.

         “My high school sweetheart,” he lied.

         And they knew he was lying.

         But they let him lie, and they drank their wine and smoked their cigarettes, warming themselves with the electric fireplace and friendly, easy conversation.


	27. 27

**27**

**What Kinds of Dreams Do You Have, Signor?**

_There is a boy standing in an old-fashioned phone booth._

_He is holding the phone to his ear and pressing the numbers, his hands shaking, soaked to the bone from the rain outside. He is shivering. He walked for hours, wandering the streets, getting caught in the rain and ignoring the worried looks and comments from the strangers that passed him. He even entertained the idea of hopping onto a train to Barcelona for a moment, only to reach into his pockets and remember that he didn’t have enough money to do something like that._

_And now he’s in the phone booth. He is biting down on his trembling lower lip, is trying to calm himself. He is feeling an unholy mixture of absolute elation and absolute terror, fear. In his other hand there is a piece of paper crumpled up, ripped and wet, with running ink. It has his name written at the top._

_“Congratulations!” it says._

_“We are pleased to welcome you,” it says._

_“We are willing to provide you the financial support,” it says._

_“You are bright,” it says._

_“You are talented,” it says._

_Someone wants you, he hears._

_He’s so awfully happy. He can’t think straight. He can leave, run off to the UK, study in a new place with new people—create better memories to replace the bitter ones that have taken over his malleable mind. He can write there, he can discover new things there. The Belgian therapist will be so proud of him. He hasn’t felt such pride in himself in so long. He hasn’t felt so happy in so long._

_But he also feels so frightened. There is a chance, he thinks, that the people there will not accept him. He will have to start from the bottom again. He will be alone again, absolutely and terribly alone. He’s never been to the UK before. He doesn’t know what’s there._

_He wants to talk to his little brother._

_He’s calling the phone number of his old house in Rome—a number he long ago committed to memory, though he’s never actually called—in the meager hopes that someone will answer and he will be able to talk to his brother. To tell his little brother, Hello, I miss you, look at what I’ve accomplished, now tell me what you’ve accomplished, little brother, my beautiful little baby brother, my fratellino._

_He feels nauseated as the phone continues to ring. It is late. But someone has to answer._

_“Hello?” he hears the unfamiliar voice. A servant, perhaps._

_The boy responds, forcing himself to speak in the Roman accent that he long ago discarded in favor of his Sicilian dialect._

_“Who is this?” the person on the other end asks._

_It’s me, it’s me, he repeats. Let me speak to my brother. Is he awake? Can you wake him for me? I just need to talk to him for a little bit._

_“I’m sorry, but the young master is sleeping. I cannot wake him up.”_

_Please, you don’t understand. I’m his brother, I’m his older brother, I need to talk to him._

_“I am going to hang up now,” the man says slowly. “And, please, do not call this number again. Else I will have to tell the master, and he won’t be happy to hear that you called.”_

_The boy hears the click of the phone and begins to sob._

* * *

 

            The day that Feliciano and Romano returned to London and took the train back to their university campus, they were visibly refreshed and happy. Romano couldn’t remember having the ability to smile like this, truly smile without having to fake it. He hadn’t spent time like this with his brother in so long, and he had forgotten how just Feliciano’s presence could lift his spirits. Exploring with Feli, eating with Feli, taking walks on the beach with Feli, zooming through the Sicilian streets on a Vespa with Feli, laying in bed and talking until they could see the sunrise. Romano was overwhelmed with this indescribable, unfathomable love he felt for his baby brother. On the train, while Feli was smiling and watching the English countryside, Romano couldn’t resist. He put his arms around his baby brother and held him.

            “L-Lovi? What is it? What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing, stupid. I just wanted to hug you.”

            With a laugh, Feliciano squeezed Romano and they swayed together.

            But they were exhausted. When they returned, they went back to Romano’s room, said swift hellos to Kiku and Alfred, and collapsed onto the bed. Feliciano was asleep within minutes—unlike Romano, who tended to curl up into a ball when he slept, Feliciano spread his limbs out, making it less than ideal for Romano. But he didn’t mind. He just moved to the wall and looked out the window. As exhausted as he was, sleep was not something that would come so easily to him. Now that he was back in the UK, now that he was hearing English around him and seeing the remnants of a snowy few weeks, he could feel himself slipping back into his habits of despair. He tried to keep the thoughts from his mind, but they were creeping in slowly, discreetly. He couldn’t pinpoint where they were. They were sneaky.

            And now he was desperate to see Toni. He hadn’t told him, but Toni’s good night messages and good morning messages had meant the world to him. They had helped him rest at night and given him motivation to get out of bed in the morning, knowing that there was someone who loved him enough to tell him, every night and every morning, “I love you. I hope you slept well. I miss you.” I’m waiting for you.

            _Even if he is lying, I don’t think I care at this point._

The next day, Feliciano apologized and said he would be spending the day with Ludwig.

            “Fine, but I still don’t like him.”

            “ _Lo so, lo so_.”

            They kissed goodbye and then Romano showered, took his medicine, messaged Toni, put on a coat, and began the trek to his apartment.

            “Romano! Welcome back!” Toni said with his grandiose smile as he opened the door. Without a word, Romano wrapped his arms around Toni and buried his face in his neck. He hadn’t even noticed the tears coming until they were there.

“Welcome back,” Toni repeated quietly. He held Romano tightly. Kissed his wet cheek, his temple, the top of his head, his eyelashes, his ear, whispered, “I missed you.”

            Toni closed the door. Romano leaned back against it and opened his lips, ready for, begging for Toni’s kiss. It came heavy and hungry. A hand to his cheek, fingers in his still-wet hair. As he drank in Toni’s embrace, let himself fall back, Toni unzipped Romano’s coat. Slipped it over his arms as his tongue ran slowly and smoothly along Romano’s quivering lower lip. Then Toni unwrapped Romano’s scarf and, as Romano put his arms around Toni’s shoulders, slid his hands beneath Romano’s shirt. Romano sucked in his breath at the suddenly cold touch, and Toni laughed quietly against his lips. Romano opened them more widely and took Toni in.

            They were hungry, they were deprived, they were desperate. Once their skin touched their most fiery desires were awakened again and they moved like a storm. They didn’t even move to the bed. Toni pushed Romano, hard, against the door and Romano heard himself groaning, moaning, asking for more. Crying out softly when Toni, his lips grazing Romano’s ear, slid his hand down into his pants. Grabbed him, said his name.

            _“Te quiero...”_

_“Más...”_

Romano forced Toni’s shirt over his head and to the ground, wanted to hear him breathing out into his ear. He dug his fingers into Toni’s back and traced a line with his tongue from Toni’s jaw down to his neck.

            “Roma...”

            Toni pressed his hands to the door and leaned forward until their chests were one, moaning Romano’s name, pressing his knee up between Romano’s legs. Romano could feel him breathing, could trace the lines of his muscles, could taste the saltiness on his skin as his tongue danced there. How much he had missed Toni, how much he had missed being held like this, giving pleasure and being given pleasure. Gripping hands and swapping breaths, tongues colliding and sweat pouring, with this man that he loved so much it made him feel physical pain. Made him feel that he was drowning and being resuscitated all at once.

            Toni put a hand to Romano’s cheek and kissed his lips again. Romano bit down on Toni’s lip and pulled, groaned as the sensations in his lower body exploded at Toni’s touch. Overwhelmed by the comfort of Toni’s thumb running along his cheek and the lust of his other hand grabbing him and controlling him with every move.

            “Roma... _quieres...?”_

“ _Se...mmm...se...”_ Romano leaned his head back against the door and gripped Toni more tightly. “ _Apprisciàrisi...”_

Toni shifted position. His open lips above Romano’s, foreheads pressed together. He lowered Romano’s pants, lowered his own, pushed him up against the door. Keeping his eyes steadily on Romano’s face the entire time. Romano sighed out into those open lips as Toni slid his fingers inside.

            “Don’t move away,” Romano murmured as Toni, slowly, began to enter. “I want to see your face.”

            “ _Lo que quieras.”_

Toni didn’t move away. As he thrusted, making the pleasure and the pain and the sensations explode within Romano, he kept his gaze fixed to Romano’s. Romano watched the contortions of his features—watched his brows furrow, his teeth clench, the breath leaving his lips and the way his nose crumpled. He watched the sweat pour down in droplets from his temple and the trembles in his lips, the way he shut his eyes and squeezed with each push, the way the waves of his hair pressed to his forehead. Kept watching even when he began to run his finger along Romano’s lips.

            “A-ah, Toni...!”

            “Nn...”

            As Romano rose higher and higher, he couldn’t maintain contact. He banged his head back against the door and closed his eyes and cried out, drowning in the sweet, numbing pleasure, feeling Toni’s hot breaths against his neck.

            They came together, their gasps raspy and their skin covered in sweat. But they didn’t move. They held each other tightly, as if mesmerized by the fact that they were there, alive, together.

            “I missed you so much,” Toni murmured.

            “I missed you, too,” Romano said. Hiding his smile.

            _You’re just saying that._

_You don’t mean it._

_But...do you...?_

Toni grabbed an extra shirt for Romano, they turned on some music, and decided to open the bottle of Sicilian wine that Romano had brought with him.

            “Thank you, _querido_. It was so nice of you to bring this.”

            “It’s the least I could do. You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

            _“¡Que eres lascivo!”_

They sat on the couch, and Romano curled up into Toni’s chest and forced his arm around his shoulders. He closed his eyes and listened to the music and immersed himself in every detail of Toni’s touch, Toni’s warmth, the comfort of Toni’s embrace.

            “Did you enjoy Palermo?”

            “Of course I did. It’s home.”

            “ _Me alegro.”_

“What did you do while I was gone?”

            “Stay home in fear of the snow.”

            Romano laughed quietly.

            “You would love the beach in Palermo.”

            “Are you glad you got to spend some time with Feliciano?”

            “Yes.”

            He felt Toni’s lips touch his temple and smiled. They spent the day lazing around the apartment, drinking wine, shooting the breeze, relishing each other’s presence. At one point, while Romano spread himself out on the couch and read one of the books from Toni’s bookshelf, Toni pulled out his notebook and sat on the floor across from Romano and wrote. Wrote, and wrote, and wrote. Glasses sliding down his nose, pausing every few moments to tinker with his eyebrows.

            “What are you writing now?”

            “I’m working on my novel.”

            “The one about the Sicilian boy.”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Do you have it all planned out?” Romano asked. “Do you know how you’re gonna end it?”

            “Ah...” Toni paused, scratched his head with the pen. “No, not yet. Still working on it.”

            “Oh.”

            He smiled at Romano, Romano smiled back, and went back to reading.

            Toni must have been tired. He slept until one o’clock in the afternoon the next day, leaving Romano to fend for himself in the apartment. He got out of bed after spooning for a little bit, being gentle so as not to wake Toni, and went to make himself a cup of coffee. He was delighted to find that there was a box of tomatoes waiting for him in the fridge, which he proceeded to devour. Then he took a quick shower and went back to reading his book on Toni’s couch. Every so often he would peek into the dark bedroom, see Toni still fast asleep, gripping the pillow, drool on his chin.

            _I hope you’re having sweet dreams._

_Does a person as good-hearted, as pure as you, even have nightmares?_

_What kinds of dreams do you have?_

_¿Qué tipos de sueños tienes, Toni?_

At exactly 1:12pm, Romano’s phone began to ring. He had forgotten to put it on silent (as he often did, since he didn’t receive many phone calls), and Maria Callas was so loud that it woke Toni up.

            “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Romano whispered as he rushed to pick up the phone, which he’d left in the bedroom. Toni blinked the sleep from his eyes, wiped the drool with the back of his hand, and sat up in bed. His hair completely matted on one side and completely wild on the other.

            “ _No pasa nada...”_ he grumbled.

            Romano grabbed his phone. It was Feliciano.

            “Feli?” he answered.

            He was met with sobs. Terrible, heart-wrenching sobs.

            “F-Feli! What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” he said into the phone. The sound of Feliciano crying had always made Romano’s heart sink, his hair stand on end, his breathing catch in his throat. Toni furrowed his brow.

            “Lovi, I...I’m sorry...”

            “What’re you sorry for, eh? Why are you crying?”

            Feliciano tried to respond, but was cut off by another broken sob.

            “Come on, Feliciano, you’re scaring me...”

 

* * *

 

            It’s Papá. He’s dead.

            Papá? Dead?

            This morning.

            What do you mean, dead?

            I mean he’s gone, Lovi.

 

* * *

 

            Even after the phone call ended, Romano was frozen. All he could hear was silence on the other end. But he was paralyzed, couldn’t move, couldn’t sort his thoughts. Was hardly even aware of Toni grasping his shoulders, looking into his eyes, saying, Romano, Romano, what’s wrong, talk to me, what happened, because he couldn’t understand Italian well enough to comprehend the conversation. Everything around him was fuzzy, everything blurry, everything gray.

            “Romano, _neno_ , what’s wrong, please,” Toni continued. Desperation dripping from his voice. “You look like you’ve just spoken to a ghost, tell me what happened.”

            Toni’s face finally came into focus. Romano opened his mouth.

            “My father.”

            “Your father?”

            “He’s dead.”

            “...Dead?”

            Without a word, Toni took Romano into his arms. Romano didn’t have the strength, the will, the energy, to hug him back. And Toni understood that. He just held him. Held him tightly. Put his hand on the back of Romano’s head and cradled him like a child. He was, after all, still a child, wasn’t he?

            _He’s dead._

_He’s...dead._

_He’s...dead?_

_What?_

The worst part of all, the scariest part of all, was that Romano didn’t know how he felt. Even after hearing the anguish in Feliciano’s voice, the terrible sobs that had wracked his little brother’s body, he didn’t know how he felt. Hollow? Numb? Maybe it hadn’t hit him yet, maybe the information hadn’t sunk in yet, maybe...

            _Maybe I don’t care._

* * *

 

Feliciano couldn’t stop crying.

            And worse than that, he couldn’t stop apologizing.

            “I’m sorry, Lovi, I’m sorry. I know how he did terrible things to you and I know all of the bad things he’s done but he’s still my father and I’m so sad, I don’t want to believe that he’s gone.”

            “It’s okay, please don’t apologize...”

            Romano couldn’t say that he felt sad, because he didn’t. How could he, after everything? After the beatings, the bruises, the neglect...perhaps even in death, Romano’s father was loath to hear Romano call him that. “Father.” Romano didn’t feel anything at all—but that, in itself, was feeling something. It was as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul, a piece that he couldn’t name or describe, leaving him with the irksome feeling that he was missing something. Toni tried to comfort him but wasn’t sure how, because when he said he was sorry and asked if there was anything he could do, Romano said, “No. I’m fine. Really.”

            And he meant it.

            But Feliciano was completely crushed, devastated, couldn’t hold his tears back for more than a few hours at a time. He stayed in Romano’s room, trying to keep it together; Ludwig stayed with him, as well, and it was the only time Romano would have tolerated him in his room. It was the worst time for it to happen, too, as classes had been set to start the next day. But Feliciano and Romano were in no position to go to class.

            “You’ll come to the funeral...won’t you, Lovi?”

            Romano hadn’t planned on it.

            _He wouldn’t have wanted me there._

But Feliciano was the one person that Romano could never, under any circumstances, refuse.

            “Of course.”

            So, for the first time in over ten years, Romano bought tickets to Rome. They packed and they flew over there for the funeral.

            “Are you sure you’re okay, Roma?” Toni asked the night before his trip. Feliciano had finally managed to fall asleep, and Toni and Romano agreed to meet behind the dorm building. “You haven’t said anything about it...”

            “I...I really don’t know if I’m okay,” Romano admitted. “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t really feel anything.”

            He stared down at his hands. He recalled all the nights that he had laid in bed, cursing his father to hell. He couldn’t decide if he regretted that or not.

            “That’s okay.”

            “Am I a terrible person for not feeling sad?”

            “Of course not.” Toni lifted Romano’s chin and looked into his eyes. “Of course not, _querido_. Give yourself time to figure things out.”

            “What if they don’t want me at the funeral?”

            “You’re there for Feliciano, no? Just be there for him.”

            “Okay.”

            “Message me when you arrive safely.”

            “I will.”

            One last kiss.

 

* * *

 

            It seemed as if all of Rome had come to their father’s funeral. And Romano, as he expected, recognized absolutely nobody. He couldn’t even recognize his own aunts, his own uncles, the people he had lived with until he was seven years old. He worked harder than usual to hide his Sicilian. He stayed by Feliciano’s side, supported him, said curt hellos to the people who came not to comfort him, but to comfort Feliciano. Very few people recognized him, as well; and even if they did, they didn’t let it show. They would give him quiet nods, shake his hand. Not coddle him the way that they did Feliciano—who, admittedly, was more emotional. Tears constantly running down his cheeks, voice cracking when he tried to speak. Every few minutes, Romano would lean over and whisper words of comfort, words of support, in Feliciano’s ear.

            “Lovino. You actually came.”

            That was the greeting he received from Feliciano’s mother. Now a widow.

            “I know that he didn’t consider me his son, but he was my father, all the same,” Romano responded. She nodded, put a hand on his shoulder, kissed his cheeks as was custom.

            “It was good of you to come,” she said. Her face like stone. “It means the world to Feliciano, I’m sure.”

            Feliciano spoke at the funeral service. Romano was sitting in the front row, because Feliciano had absolutely refused to have Romano moved from his side. As Feliciano spoke, the entire congregation was moved to tears.

            “My father wasn’t perfect. He had a temper. He was stubborn. And, like anyone, he made some terrible mistakes.” Feliciano paused, moved his gaze to Romano. Romano couldn’t stand to meet his eyes and stared instead at the ground. “But he was my father. He loved me and...he loved me and my brother, and he wanted what was best for us.”

            Romano couldn’t breathe. He felt everybody’s eyes on him now. Everybody who knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Feliciano was lying. Romano’s face was hot, and he felt so nauseated that he might have passed out.

            “I can’t imagine what my life will be like without him.”

            At the reception, Romano felt like throwing up. Felt like locking himself up in the bathroom and taking the time he needed to breathe. But he couldn’t leave Feliciano.

            _Papá didn’t love me._

_He didn’t care about me._

_I was an embarrassment._

_But...now that he’s gone..._

Romano, of course, slept at Feliciano’s home. The home that he himself had been born in. He had a room to himself. The maids and the butlers tended to him, and it felt strange. They drew a bath for him, made the bed for him, brought him dinner to his room when he said that he wasn’t feeling well enough to come down.

            The maid that brought him his dinner was named Isabel.

            “You probably don’t remember me, but I took care of you when you were just a little boy,” she smiled. Romano was taken aback. Surprised that someone of this household was smiling at him, conversing with him. She put the dinner on the table and sat on the bed beside him. “You were very small, and very quiet. Not like Feliciano.”

            “We’re still nothing alike,” he grumbled.

            “I can see that. But you’ve grown to be a fine young man,” she said. He blinked at her, silent, not sure what he could say. There was a terrible pain in his chest. “You know...I used to give you your baths. And I used to cover up your bruises and tend to you.”

            Romano was suffocating again.

            “You caused trouble. You broke things, and you threw tantrums, but...I knew it wasn’t your fault. I wish that I could’ve given more to you. Done more for you.”

            The tears spilled.

            “But I want to tell you something. I was with your father when he died, you know? In the master bedroom. I was with him. He said to me, you know what he said? He said, ‘My regret, my one regret...’”

            _No, stop._

_Don’t do this to me._

_Don’t do this._

“He said, ‘My one regret is that I never asked for forgiveness from Lovino. I’m not sure if he would have given it, but I should have asked.’”

            As Romano began to weep, he realized.

            He had never blamed his father.

            He had never blamed him.

            He had never blamed anyone.

            _I’ve always just blamed myself._

_Am I...am I really the one to blame?_

* * *

 

_Of course I am._

_It’s not Papá’s fault I’m like this._

_It’s mine._

_It’s mine._

_It’s mine._

_I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son._

            _I’m sorry, Papá._


	28. 28

**Chapter 28**

**Have I Ever Told You How Beautiful You Are, Querido?**

_Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero._

_No te dejaré nunca._

_Te prometo._

_Por eso...por favor..._

_No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida._

 

* * *

 

            Toni was very, very worried about Romano. So worried that he forgot about the conflicts that had been crushing him these past few weeks, and thought only about what he could do. He’d always had to work to make sure that Romano was happy, that Romano was comfortable, that Romano felt safe and secure, whatever that took. But now it was more difficult because Toni wasn’t quite sure what Romano needed or what Romano wanted. When he came back from Rome, something had changed in him. No, that wasn’t it. Nothing had changed. But the parts of himself that he hated, that he had been managing to push down, were surfacing and making themselves much more apparent, were taking over the other parts of his mind. Toni could see it. The smiles that he’d seen on Romano’s face after his visit to Sicily disappeared. As if they had never existed at all.

            His tantrums became more common. And so his crashes became more common. The week following his return from Rome, he hardly said a word to Toni except, “ _Làssimi jiri,”_ or “ _Vatinni_ ,” or, “ _M’â scusari, t’amu,_ please come back and hold me.” Toni did whatever Romano asked of him, tried to do more. Let the insults and the screams wash over him. He kept his door wide open, his arms even wider. Sometimes Romano clambered into them blindly. Other times he pushed them away.

            One morning, Toni opened his eyes to find Romano at the window of the bedroom, pushing the curtain back and staring outside. His toes curled in, his fingers clenching the cloth of the curtain, his forehead against the glass. He was crying silently.

            “Mm, Roma?” Toni said, still barely awake. The morning sunlight fell upon Romano’s silhouette, lit up him like a fallen star. At Toni’s voice, Romano turned to face him, his expression cold and vacant. Without a word, he climbed back into bed. He put his back against Toni’s bare chest and wrapped Toni’s arms around himself and pulled, pulled, pulled. Curled up and breathed out shakily when Toni kissed the back of his neck.

            “Are you ready to tell me how you’re feeling, _neno_?” he whispered.

            “I’m not feeling anything. I...I’m not feeling anything, and it’s terrifying.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            “When I first heard that Papá was dead, I didn’t know what to think. I felt so terrible for not feeling sad. He was my father, my only father, he was family. And I kept asking myself why I didn’t feel sad. Because he hit me? Because he told me he didn’t love me? Is that why I’m not crying the way that Feli is? Is that why...why I feel betrayed that Feli cries for him?”

            Romano’s voice was smooth and steady. Not shaking, not trembling, not uncertain.

            “I’ve only ever felt angry at my father for one thing.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Not letting me talk to Feliciano for all those years. That’s it. The only thing I ever hated my father for.”

            Romano was playing with Toni’s fingers.

            “When I was staying at the home in Rome, the place that I grew up in for the first seven years of my life, one of the maids told me that she remembered me. Her name was Isabel. She used to take care of me after Papá’s beatings. I don’t remember her. I don’t really remember anything good from that time, and she must have been one of those rare good things. She said that I caused trouble and threw tantrums, but she said, ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ And I thought to myself, Who the fuck are you to say what is and isn’t my fault? How the fuck do you know?”

            Romano might have been speaking to himself then. But Toni was listening.

            “And she told me what Papá said about me before he died. He said that his only regret was not asking for my forgiveness. Can you believe that? My father...his only regret was not apologizing to me.” Romano laughed. Empty. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe in his dying days Papá spared a single thought for me. But he didn’t regret hitting me. He didn’t regret sending me away, didn’t regret disowning me, didn’t regret keeping me away from my beautiful baby brother. No, he didn’t care about any of that. He just regretted not apologizing, not saying the words. _Mi dispiace, Lovino. Mi perdonerai, piccolo?”_

Toni was terrified. Terrified of what Romano was going to say next. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear it.

            “I’ve told you before, haven’t I? That I don’t blame my father. I never did, even as a child. Why would I blame him? For what is he to blame? What do you think, Toni?”

            “I don’t know. It’s not my place to pin blame.”

            “You’re so fucking nice. It makes me sick sometimes, you know that?”

            Toni squeezed Romano more tightly, afraid that if he didn’t hold him as tightly as he possibly could, Romano wouldn’t feel it.

            “And when Isabel said that to me, said, ‘It’s not your fault,’ I thought, yes it is. Yes it fucking is. It fucking is my fault. It has to be. You don’t hit someone for no reason, right? Look at Feli. Papá never hit Feli. He only hit me. So it wasn’t him, it wasn’t...it wasn’t _him_. It was me. I’m the problem. I am. Of course it’s my fault, it has to be _my_ fault. And can you believe, Papá wanted to apologize to _me?_ It’s hilarious, it fucking kills me it’s so damn funny. You know, if Papá really had apologized to me, I probably would’ve laughed in his face and told him to shove that apology back up his wrinkly ass where it came from.”

            Toni felt the world crashing down on them.

            “I should’ve been like Feli. I should’ve been talented and fair and sweet, like Feli. That’s what Papá wanted. But I couldn’t be like Feli. It’s my fault. And it’s my fault Feli’s childhood was so fucked up. Why did I fuck it up for him? That’s selfish of me. That’s so selfish of me.”

            “ _Mi Roma...por favor...”_

“At the funeral service, Feliciano gave a speech. And he said that Papá loved both of his sons. Isn’t that hilarious? Everybody in the whole church knew that he was lying straight through his teeth! How could Papá have loved me? It’s so funny that Feli said that. Don’t you think? And now Papá is dead, and he had to die knowing that I was never what he wanted.”

            And then, for the first time in years— _years_ —Toni began to cry. Large, powerful tears blinded him, stung his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own loud, ugly sobs. He buried his face into Romano’s small, fragile back, let his tears slide down Romano’s skin. He grasped at him as his body shook. His throat burned, his muscles ached, his heart seemed to stop completely. He cried like a young child. Without restraint, without reason, unable to be comforted until the tears dried on their own and he couldn’t cry anymore from sheer exhaustion. He was aware of himself saying Romano’s name, his real name, over and over again in his hoarse voice.

            “Lovino...Lovino...Lovino.”

            “I’m sorry. Now I’m making you cry, too. I think that’s all I can really do. Disappoint people, make people sad. Even the person I love...the person I love more than anything in the whole world...all I can do is make you cry.”

            The entire bed—the entire world—shook with Toni’s sobs. He could hold nothing back. Everything flowed from within him, intense and affectionate and compassionate. All he could think was, how I love this beautiful boy, this perfect child, this Lovino, how I love him and how little I can do for him. Can I do more? What can I do?

            “I love you so much, I love you,” Toni heard himself say. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

            “You don’t have to say it if you don’t mean it.”

            Toni held on more tightly.

            “ _Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero.”_

“You can leave me if you want. It’ll probably be easier that way, right?”

            “ _Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero. No te dejaré nunca. Te prometo. Por eso...por favor...No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida.”_

* * *

 

            Romano said that he needed to make an important phone call, and he wanted Toni to be there with him.

            “Can you just stay in the room with me while I make this call?”

            “Of course.”

            They were in Toni’s office. The semester had started up again. Romano was in another one of Toni’s seminars, and though their schedules were different this semester than last, they quickly worked out a system in which Romano could visit him in his office when it was likely to be empty. Toni sat at his desk, glasses on his head, flipping through assignments, while Romano sat at the windowsill with the phone shaking in his hand. He glanced up at Toni, who smiled and nodded encouragingly.

            Toni had told Romano that he thought he should get therapy. Talk to a professional who might listen to him, help him, give him the proper advice that he needed. Give him what Toni wanted to give him, but didn’t have to means to. And Romano’s response had been, initially, absolute refusal.

            “I’m not gonna talk to any fucking shrinks, all right, bastard? I’ve tried that already.”

            “Well, was it helpful?”

            “I’m still fucked up, aren’t I?”

            So Toni had let it be. But gradually, he had managed to warm Romano up to the idea.

            “It doesn’t mean you’re crazy, _querido_. Please? Do it for me?”

            And Romano had agreed. But first, he said, he needed to make a phone call. An important phone call. And then, he promised, he would talk to a therapist in the UK.

            So now they found themselves in Toni’s office, and Romano was dialing a number on his phone. He looked completely frightened, lips pursed, sitting on his other hand, knees curled up to his chest. Toni watched him closely, swiveling slightly in his chair. To his surprise, when someone picked up on the other end, Romano began to speak in Spanish.

            “Hello? Is this Laura Peeters?”

            Toni could just barely hear the voice on the other hand, muffled. It was a woman’s voice.

            “Ah, um, yes...did I call at a bad time? No? Oh, good.”

            He glanced over at Toni, and Toni gave him another smile.

            “I don’t know if you still remember me...It’s Lovino. Lovino Vargas.”

            Toni heard the other voice grow louder and more excited. Romano flinched, but began to smile.

            “Doing well. I’m sorry for not calling before now, it’s already been two years...no, I love the school, I think it’s a perfect fit...um, most of the time, I do. But sometimes I forget, or I don’t feel like taking it...yeah, my grades are fine...Friends? Yeah, I have friends. Oh, and my brother transferred here. Remember I used to tell you about him? Mhmm, he’s here, too...I like my professors, they’re all nice.”

            Romano stuck his tongue out at Toni, who pretended to flip his nonexistent long hair.

            “I mean, not great. But...I think I’m going to talk to someone here. Do you think that’s a good idea? Yeah, I know, but...to be honest, I’m scared...I know...yeah...oh, I guess I forgot to tell you that my father died a couple weeks ago. Yeah, the same one.”

            Romano was on the phone with Laura Peeters for another hour. As the conversation continued, he appeared more comfortable, his muscles releasing their tension. He began to smile as he spoke, even laughed. Toni watched him, his chest swelling, and continued flipping through his students’ assignments.

            “Thank you. Yeah, I will. Okay. Talk to you soon. _Hasta luego.”_

After Romano hung up, he took a deep breath.

            “So?” Toni asked. “Who was that? You gonna tell me now?”

            “She...she was my therapist in Granada. I just wanted to talk to her. Out of every therapist I’ve ever had she was the best.”

            “You’ve never told me about her.”

            “You never asked.”

            “You little...”

            Romano laughed, and then reached his hand out. Toni took it in his own and kissed Romano’s tingling fingertips.

            “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are, _querido_?” he murmured.

            Romano finally smiled, really smiled.

            “Maybe once or twice. Wouldn’t hurt to say it more often.”

            “All right.” Toni kissed his fingers one by one. “You’re beautiful.”

            “You’re not half bad yourself, old man.”

            “Romano.”

            “What? Why’d you get all serious?”

            “You...you do know that I love you, don’t you?”

            Romano opened his mouth, about to say something. But he hesitated. Toni squeezed his hand and stared into his eyes.

            And then, Romano sighed.

            “Yes. I know.”

 

* * *

 

            Toni knew that he had to do what was best for Romano. Even if it made his heart scream out, even if it made him physically ache, even if it made him question every decision he had ever made. He needed to put Romano first—that was what love meant, after all. Loving someone meant putting them first, meant treating them in the best way possible. That was love. But Toni still didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what it was that Romano needed. Surely the therapy was a step in the right direction. Romano was taking his own steps to get the help that he needed, the help that he deserved. So what could Toni do?

            He thought about his conversation with Arthur Kirkland. He thought about his warnings. It will hurt, Toni, but you have to do what’s necessary. What did that mean?

            He thought about his conversation with Alfred. He remembered how much Alfred had been hurting. How betrayed, how abandoned, how lost he’d felt.

            Was that something Toni would ever wish upon Romano?

            And then Toni thought about María. His wife, his companion, the woman that he had promised to give his life to. He tried to imagine what a future with Romano would look like, but he could see nothing past the next day, the next minute, the next second. If only he’d met Romano earlier, he thought. If only he’d met Romano before he had made his decision to marry María, if only he had met Romano and thought, This is it. This is the love that people spend their whole lives waiting for. I’ve found it.

            Toni had found it too late.

            But...had he really? For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that the situation would be different if he were younger, if he hadn’t married María, if he weren’t Romano’s professor at this school.

            Toni started thinking a lot about the first time he’d seen Romano. Sitting at the other end of the table in the classroom, curled up, withdrawn, dragging his little dark cloud wherever he went. Shocking everyone with his eloquence, mixed in with his unapologetic vulgarity and undeniable talent. He recalled his initial enthrallment with Romano—write for me, _querido_. I want to read your writing. One night, when Toni stayed late in his office, he rummaged through his desk and pulled out the poem. The one that had first caused his writer’s block, the one that Romano had written the first day of class. He read through it one, two, ten, a hundred times. He nearly had it memorized by that point.

            _marinara pieces of paper stray cat_

_sleep jacket overstuffed with lasagna_

_guitar water candles at night_

_island renaissance not-talented-at-all_

_chapels volcano cheap tickets_

_tourist tourist tourist the color blue_

_brother baby brother pedestals_

_grandfather paint 17 th century florence_

            It suddenly made more sense to Toni. All of it. Knowing Romano allowed him to know the poem. He read the anguish in it, the different pieces of his life that had helped create him, woven into the story that this poem told. He hoped that one day the poem would be published for the whole world to read and misunderstand. That seemed so very like Romano.

            Toni knew that he was very much in love with Lovino Vargas, and he knew that that wasn’t going to change. Not now, not ever. He was old enough, had experienced enough, to understand that.

            And, as much as it made him hate himself, he was starting to understand what it meant to love Lovino Vargas. Was starting to understand the best way to do it.

            That same night, sitting at his desk, ragged and exhausted, Toni wrote out the entire ending chapter of his novel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a few more chapters left!! 
> 
> hasta luego (:


	29. 29

**29**

**Would You Drown Me, Amuri?**

            _There is a boy walking across a beautiful university campus._

_He can walk these paths with his eyes closed. It’s been a year since he arrived here, and he cannot imagine how many hours he has spent wandering through the campus, alone, counting the cobblestones and the decaying trees that like to greet him. The boy has made himself comfortable here in this place that he worked so hard to get to. When he had doubts about coming, he swallowed them down and convinced himself, even if it was fake, that this was the right decision. He still very much believes that it is. As fickle and as weak as his soul is, it needed a change. And through his lonely explorations, by laying his hands upon the limbs of this land, he made himself a place to live._

_He’s not happy, and there’s no way to convince himself—or anyone else—that he is. He has long forgotten what happiness feels like, so he wonders whether he’d even be able to recognize it. Probably. Sometimes he sees glimmers of it. When he writes a particularly beautiful and cathartic poem. When he has dreams about his younger brother. There is no real reason for him to be unhappy, he constantly tells himself. He’s at this wonderful university, where people are kind to him. The students accept him, even when he inevitably lashes out at them—even sometimes at his professors. But the professors are kind to him, too. He enjoys (as much as he can) the classes with them. History with the loud German professor. Linguistics with the eccentric French professor. Economics with the brilliant Chinese professor. He has nothing to complain about, nothing to truly dislike._

_But still he’s not happy._

_Still he feels empty, hollow, numb to everything but despair._

_He has embraced his own darkness and surrounded himself in it. He doesn’t remember what the light looks like, what it feels like to not be drowning. Gasping, struggling for air. This is the only thing he knows._

_The boy is walking to class. It’s a writing class, something in which he can picture himself excelling. But the professor is new. The boy is nervous, and makes a point of withdrawing deep into his heart’s abyss._

_He walks into the classroom and sits down at the seminar table. He takes out his little black notebook because it calms his nerves. He glances up and he sees the professor._

_And in that moment he thinks, Is that what light looks like?_

* * *

 

            Romano felt something shift in his soul. He heard a click, like a missing piece had finally found its way to its rightful place inside him. It was a strange, alien feeling that left him confused and anxious. The numbness was sliding away, being replaced with this emotion he couldn’t name—something akin to acceptance, maybe? Completeness? A true understanding of why he hated himself, and this world, so very much. Of course he didn’t have the answers. But he was starting to ask the right questions.

            He finally wanted to be better.

            And he was learning, slowly, to forgive.

            The new therapist was a very kind Turkish man who spoke a little bit of Italian and had a very charming accent. Romano knew it would take time before he was able to tell his new therapist everything, but Toni reassured him that patience was necessary. Used the phrase, perhaps ironically, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

            Romano spent more time with Feliciano, who was still fragile and emotional and had considered taking leave for the semester. Romano felt now that it was his duty, and his deepest desire, to take care of his little brother. That was the job of an older brother, after all. Just as Feliciano had taken care of him. He told Feli to shower when it had been a few days; he brought Feli his favorite pizzas; he took Feli out for walks, and took the train to explore London with him. Anything to remind him to smile, and to remind him that he had a brother who loved him very much. So much that when (on more than one occasion) Romano tried to tell Feli how he’d been the only reason Romano had survived the deepest times in his life, his emotions got the best of him and he couldn’t do it.

            _You are everything to me,_ fratellino.

            _Did you know that?_

He still lashed out. Still felt anger so intense that it sometimes blinded him. He still cringed, withdrew, felt terrible fear when people made sudden moves around him.

            But Toni was still there to tell him that it was okay.

            _Antonio._

_The light to my darkness._

_The smile to my scowl._

_The love to my hate._

They loved desperately. Both of them, Romano mused, eager to make sure the other understood the extent of his love. For Toni’s birthday, they went dancing in London, willing to take the risk that someone might recognize them. It was their first time out in London together. They walked along the river, Romano clinging to Toni’s arm in the chilly February air. It drizzled a little bit, but it felt pure. And when they got to the nightclub and began to dance, chests pressed together and breaths intermingling and movements graceful and elaborate, everybody watched them. They stole the dance floor with their steps, their twirls, the way that Toni lifted Romano into the air and held him there, and then dipped him so low that his head nearly touched the floor. They might as well have been the only ones dancing. And Romano could hardly comprehend how elated he felt, moving like this in Toni’s arms and whispering in his ear, “Happy birthday, you stupid, beautiful bastard.”

            Back at Toni’s flat, they got high and kept dancing. Wearing nothing but their boxers and each other. Then they made love that was so divine it left them speechless, so they wrote about each other instead.

            _After we make love, and we’re laying in bed together, you always have the same look on your face. Like you’re sad, or afraid that you’ll never experience anything like it ever again._

As was inevitably to happen at one point or another, rumors about Toni began to spread.

            “People are talking about you,” Romano said in his office one day. He was tracing patterns on Toni’s palm. “They say that you’re fooling around with a student.”

            “Then we have nothing to worry about, since I’m not fooling around with anyone,” he winked.

            “This is serious! What if President Eyebrows decides to investigate or something?”

            Toni smiled and kissed Romano’s cheek.

            “ _No te preocupes._ Let me deal with it.”

            “Don’t lose your job, asshole.”

            Romano and Toni had a silent, unbreakable pact to never talk about the future.

            It just made them upset.

            Romano didn’t want to hear Toni say that he would leave his wife. He didn’t want that burden of someone else’s pain on his shoulders, not when he already had his own and Feli’s.

* * *

 

When Toni asked Romano what he wanted for his birthday, Romano told the truth and said nothing. All he wanted was a quiet night in with wine and gazpacho and drunk, affectionate, slobbery kisses. So that was what Toni gave him.

            But after dinner, while Romano washed the dishes (since Toni had done all the cooking), Toni came up behind him and covered his eyes.

            “Oi, what are you—?”

            “I have a surprise for you, _querido,”_ Toni said in a singsong voice.

            “I told you not to get me anything!”

            “Well I didn’t listen. _Ven conmigo.”_

“Toni!”

            Hands still over Romano’s eyes, Toni began to lead him gently through the house. To the bedroom, Romano guessed. His uncertainty, the wobble in his walk, reminded him of the time he and Toni had gone to Wales. And Toni had shown him the lighthouse. Romano reached his arms out, groping in his blindness to make sure he didn’t run into anything.

            “What, you don’t trust me?” Toni whispered in his ear.

            “Not even a little bit.”

            Toni laughed and kissed the back of his neck. When he stopped, he didn’t remove his hands from Romano’s eyes. Instead, for a few moments, they just stood. Romano brought his hands up and rested them gently on Toni’s wrists, became lost in the tired, sweet wine kisses on his neck.

            “Ready, _neno_?”

            “Mhmm.”

            “It’s nothing big...”

            Toni removed his hands. On the bed in front of them was a small, burgundy box tied with a black ribbon. Romano picked it up. It was light in his hands. He shook it, heard the clatter, tried to guess what it was. Toni wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin on Romano’s shoulder.

            “Go on, open it.”

            Romano grabbed the black ribbon and pulled. As it fell to the ground, he lifted the lid of the box. Toni was right. It wasn’t anything big. But it made Romano catch his breath all the same. In the center of the box was a slim, red, leather-bound notebook. It had clearly been hand sewn together, with imperfectly cut pages and the scent of ink and paper already permeating it. Beside it was a long, thin fountain pen. Romano let the box drop to the bed and picked up the notebook. He held it in his hands, felt the cover with his thumbs, flipped through the lined pages. He wordlessly glanced over at Toni, who was watching his face with an incandescent smile.

            “Look at the front page, _cariño,_ ” he murmured. Squeezing Romano’s waist.

            Romano swallowed back any words on his tongue and flipped to the front page. Printed onto it were two pictures. One was a photograph that Romano didn’t know existed. It was at the cliff overlooking the abandoned lighthouse. The photograph showed Romano from a distance standing at the edge of the cliff with his hands brushing the tall grass and the lighthouse rising up before him. The sky was dark and colors were muted and somber.

            “Wh...when did you take this?” Romano stuttered. He could hardly hear his own voice.

            “The first time I showed you the lighthouse. I couldn’t help myself. Look at you. _Un tesoro.”_

            Romano’s hands were shaking, the notebook shaking with them. The second picture was one that he remembered taking. It had been taken recently. On the night of Toni’s birthday, when they had gone out dancing together. Toni had asked someone at the club if they would mind taking a picture of the two of them—it was one of the very few photos that they had together. They both looked flustered and tired, having been dancing for nearly two hours at that point. But they looked happy. Both of them. Toni had his arms wrapped around Romano’s waist and was lifting him slightly into the air, kissing his cheek. When the time for the picture had come, Romano hadn’t been expecting Toni to do that. So he was caught mid-laugh, arms on Toni’s shoulders, being swept off his feet.

            It was a beautiful photograph.

            “Toni...”

            “I figured your notebook would run out of pages soon, no? And, maybe it’s narcissistic of me, but I thought it might be inspiring to see my face...or the lighthouse...every time you open it to write,” he said, his voice muffled against Romano’s skin. “Do you...do you like it?”

            Romano put the notebook back in the box and turned around to face Toni. He put his hands on Toni’s cheeks and looked into his eyes—looked into them deeply. Silently. Knew that he wouldn’t be able to find the words, but thought maybe if he gazed at him deeply enough, Toni would just understand. Then, slowly, Romano leaned forward, lifted himself onto his toes, and kissed Toni’s lips. He kissed them hard, he kissed them long, he willed to his lips the emotions that he was feeling but couldn’t put into any of the languages that he knew.

            When he couldn’t breathe, and when he was certain that there was nothing left in him to give through that kiss, he pulled his lips away and let Toni hold him.

            “Happy birthday, Lovino.”

            Romano couldn’t breathe.

            “ _Te quiero.”_

Romano asked Toni if he would play his guitar for him. Toni grabbed his guitar and sat down on the floor of the living room, leaning back against the sofa. Romano grabbed the blankets from the bed and sat down beside Toni. He put his head against Toni’s leg and spread the blanket out over them. When Toni began to play, Romano closed his eyes. He could feel the vibrations of the guitar against his cheek, could hear Toni’s smooth-like-honey voice surrounding him. Calming his unsteady heart, but making his limbs tremble. Toni was singing a lullaby. The same lullaby. In his voice Romano could hear his mother’s, too. It made his mind hazy and made his eyelids droop.

            “Toni,” he heard himself say. “Toni...Antonio...I love you. _T’amu, Antonio, t’amu._ ”

            Lovino thought back to the waves and the lighthouse. He thought back to when he and Toni had been sitting, flirting with death, letting their feet dangle off the side off the cliff. And Lovino had said, about the ocean, “Would it love us enough to drown us?”

            _If it were the only way to prove you loved me..._

_The only way to keep me..._

_Would you drown me, my love?_

_¿Me ahogarías, Antonio?_

* * *

 

Romano remembered the date perfectly. It would’ve been impossible to forget.

            April 28th. 14:23.

            He somehow knew before he even arrived at Toni’s office that it was coming. He felt that he had seen it coming from miles away. Hadn’t he been the one to admit it, at the very beginning, when Toni had tried to turn him away?

            _“It will end in flames.”_

_“Everything ends in flames anyway, right?”_

Romano had never taken the time to imagine the flames, but he could feel their heat. He was drawn toward them like a moth. Toni hadn’t needed to drop hints. They had both just known.

            Romano knocked on the door of Toni’s office and, for the first time, actually waited for Toni to answer. He didn’t say, “Come in.” He opened the door himself. As he stood in the doorway, hair unkempt, bloodshot and dark eyes, exhausted, he seemed smaller. Romano stepped into the office and closed the door behind him, and Toni kissed him with chapped, salty lips. Romano let himself be kissed, but did not kiss back.

            The office was filled with boxes. And the boxes were filled with Toni’s things. The decorations on the walls were torn down. The books stacked in piles in the boxes. His desk a complete mess, the blinds closed, soft music playing from his small stereo. An unfinished cup of coffee, a crumpled Spanish flag on the windowsill. The smell of cigarette smoke and liquor. Romano looked around as Toni collapsed into his chair and ran his hands through his oily hair. They were silent for a long time.

            “You’re leaving,” Romano finally said.

            “ _Sí.”_

“Back to Spain?”

            “Back to Madrid for now, yes.”

            “What did President Eyebrows say?”

            “He understood.”

            Romano felt himself engulfed in the flames. The burning in his lungs, the dryness on his tongue, the pain on his skin.

            “Are you surprised, _neno_?” Toni whispered.

            “No. I don’t think so.” Romano took another step into the fire. He walked to the windowsill and ran his fingers along the Spanish flag there. “I always knew it would happen.”

            His tears fell onto the flag. In his chair, Toni put a hand to his forehead and bit down, hard, on his lower lip.

            “I just thought that maybe it would last longer,” Romano whispered. “Can I ask you something, Toni?”

            “ _D...dime...”_

“Why?” he asked. “Did I become too much?”

            “What?”

            “Is it because I cry all the time? Did you finally get sick of the insults? Sick of dealing with my mood swings and my temper tantrums?”

            “No, Romano. No.”

            “Is it María? Did you remember how much you really love her?”

            Toni spread his arms out. Romano sat on his lap and curled up there, his head on Toni’s chest. Tears soaking his shirt.

            “No,” he said. “It’s not any of that.”

            “Do you even know why, then?”

            “You... _mi tesoro_ , you have so much growing to do. I have so much growing to do. Everybody has growing to do.”

            Romano didn’t say anything. Just listened and burned.

            “And sometimes, even if we love someone...even if we feel that we can help them, we can’t.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “I think you need to continue this journey for you, _querido_. And I think that if I continue this, I’ll be in your way.”

            “You’re not in my way. It’s the opposite. Where the fuck would I be without you?”

            “Your path is different than mine. Your growth is different than mine.”

            “You’re helping me get better.”

            “But you need to get better for _you_.”

            Romano thought for a moment,

            _He hates me_

_He’s finally grown sick of me_

_It was bound to happen_

_Everyone gets sick of me_

“I...I don’t want to let go of you,” Toni wept. Holding Romano like a child in his lap. “But I fear that if I hold on, you will never fly.”

            But Romano dispelled those thoughts.

            Because he knew they were wrong.

            _He loves me._

_He’s doing this for me._

_He’s suffering..._

_...for me._

“I don’t want to give you up. _Mi cariño, mi tesoro, mi Romanito,_ ” he continued. “ _Mi vida, mi amor, te amo...”_

Romano looked down at his skin. It was peeling away.

            “I don’t want to let you go. It hurts, Romano. It hurts so much.”

            _I’m going numb again._

“But if I keep holding onto you...if I keep being this selfish...what will become of you? What will happen to that beautiful light in your eyes, the passion in your heart?”

            _Selfish?_

“I can’t keep being selfish.”

            _You? Selfish?_

“Maybe...maybe you can’t understand it right now. You can hate me. But I think—no, no. I’m sure that this is the right thing to do.”

            “You’ve thought this through.”

            “I’ve had so many nightmares.”

            “But you love me, right? You still love me?”

            _“Te acuerdas, ¿querido? Te dije. Mi corazón es tuyo. Mi alma es tuyo. Te querré para siempre, para siempre, para siempre. No te dejaré nunca. ¿Te acuerdas?”_

“I remember.”

            “That hasn’t changed. That will never change. I love you. Always.”

            “Is that why you’re leaving me?”

            _Is that why you’re burning with me in these flames?_

“I have so much faith in you, Lovino. So much. You will accomplish anything you want. Anything and everything. You will have the world. But I can’t be the one to give it to you. You have to grab it yourself.”           

“I love you, too.”

            “ _Me alegro. Me alegro mucho.”_

“ _Bésame, ¿Toni?”_

_“Lo que quieras, mi amor. Mi Romanito.”_

The flames flared, burned red hot.

            But when Lovino felt Antonio’s lips on his, the flames cooled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter, loves! 
> 
> xoxo


	30. 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for sticking with it. This is, in my opinion, my best work. I have a few other completed ones on this site, one other that I'm currently posting in the Hetalia fandom, and a few others I'm working on separately. 
> 
> I am a busy woman. 
> 
> Anyway the point is, shameless plug: if you liked this, check out my other stuff!!!! 
> 
> but, like I said, I think this is my best work. It's definitely my favorite child. 
> 
> muchas gracias, son muy queridos <3 ojalá que disfruten de mi historia y que les viere en el futuro. 
> 
> xoxo

**30**

**Secret Tunnels from Madrid to Sicily**

                   Toni checked his watch and cursed under his breath. He was late. His editor was going to be absolutely furious—but what had he really been expecting? Toni’s strong suit had never been his punctuality. He grabbed his bag and rushed down the stairs, outside, and into the car that was waiting for him.

                   “ _Madre mía_ , can’t you be on time for anything? At this rate we might miss the flight,” Eduardo hissed.

                   “ _¡No te preocupes, hijo!”_ Toni smiled with a wave of his hand. “We’ll be fine. Aren’t we always?”

                   On the way to the airport, he received a phone call. Seeing as how they still had an hour before their arrival, Toni went ahead and answered.

                   “Antonio speaking,” he said, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

                   “Toni, _mon chéri!_ I’m glad I caught you,” came the voice on the other end.

                   “François! A pleasant surprise to hear from you.”

                   “Well, I had to call and say _félicitations_. I just finished reading your new book, and I must say, it is as incredible as the critics claim.”

                   “You are too kind, _amigo.”_

“No, no, I’m serious! And an international best seller, too? _Mon dieu_ , _chéri,_ that’s wonderful.”

                   “Thank you,” Toni replied. Hoping that François could imagine the wide smile on his face.

                   “Your book tour is starting now, is it not?”

                   “It is. I’m on my way to the airport right now.”

                   “Wonderful. You will be stopping in Paris, I hope?”

                   “ _Claro._ Next week.”

“ _Formidable._ You must call me once you arrive. I will treat you to dinner.”

                   “You don’t have to do that...”

                   “Of course I do! You treated me very well when I visited you in Madrid last year.”

                   “ _Vale_. _No puedo ver la hora.”_

“Until then, _chéri_. Have a safe trip.”

                   “ _Hasta luego,_ François.”

                   Toni hung up the phone and sighed happily.

                   “Who was that?” Eduardo asked.

                   “An old friend,” Toni replied with a grin.

 

* * *

 

                   Lovino locked the door of his office for the weekend, fumbling with his ring of too-many keys. He was eager to get home, pour himself a glass of wine, turn on Juanjo Dominguez and write. At the very least, he was happy that the university wasn’t far from his home. On days that he was feeling particularly energetic, he could walk to work. But today, a Friday, he had opted to take the Vespa. The sun was beginning to set as he left the building and began walking toward the scooter, keys twirling in hand. But suddenly, a young girl with sunlight eyes and an enthusiastic smile blocked his path. She was in his writing seminar.

                   “Professor Vargas! Thank goodness I caught you before you went home,” she grinned. Lovino clicked his tongue and raised his eyebrows, but refrained from rolling his eyes. He figured that, after teaching two classes, he had dashed enough hopes for the day.

                   “ _Ciau,_ Chiara.”

                   “Ah, sorry for holding you up. You must be tired and eager to get home,” she stuttered. She had a small notebook in her hands.

                   “It’s fine. How can I help you?”

                   “Well, I was wondering...” She suddenly became nervous, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, blushing. “I, uh, I wrote a story and...”

                   “You want me to read it? Is that it?”

                   “If it’s not too much trouble! It would mean the world to me. You’re so brilliant, I would be honored.”

                   “What’s it about, eh?”

                   “It’s...well, I guess it’s not totally original. You know that new book, the one by the Spanish writer? Antonio Fernández Carriedo?”

                   “ _Túneles Secretos desde Madrid a Sicilia._ I know the one.”

                   “Have you read it?”

                   “Yes.”

                   “It was very inspiring to me. So I wrote up a short story based on the main characters, because I wasn’t satisfied with the ending. Would you be able to read it?”

                   Lovino looked into her eager eyes, sighed, but put his hand out. The young woman placed the notebook into it and her smile grew even wider.

                   “ _Grazij!_ I so appreciate it, you have no idea.”

                   “ _Di nenti._ Now go home.”

                   “Yes, sir! Have a good night.”

                   Lovino looked down at the notebook and sighed again. He put it into his bag, squeezing it in next to the red leather-bound notebook that he always carried with him (though the pages had long since been completely filled). Then he put on his helmet, got onto his Vespa, and rode home.

 

* * *

 

                   Toni liked to imagine the faces of the people that he inspired. He liked to picture the expressions on their faces when they read the happy parts of his books, the sad parts of his books, and every part in between. He liked to think that he was making a difference in someone’s life—even if it was just one person. He wasn’t terribly interested in what the pretentious literary critics had to say about it. Though, with raving reviews that had taken him to the forefront of international literature in a matter of weeks, it was easy for him to say that he didn’t care. He had been genuinely surprised when the novel had received critical acclaim, propelling his career further than it had ever been. Eduardo, it seemed, had predicted as much.

                   “This one’s gonna be big, I know it,” he’d said before publishing. “Where you come up with this shit I have no idea.”

                   Now here he was, staring out the window of an airplane, starting the book tour that he had always imagined himself doing. Around Europe, first, to talk about his book and do signings. He tried to plan the answers to the questions he might be asked.

                   _“Where did the inspiration for this book come from?”_

“A child that I met a long time ago inspired the story.”

_“Is it based on any historical fact?”_

“No, not historically based—historically accurate, yes, but not based on any true stories.”

_“How long did it take you to write?”_

“To be quite honest, it’s taken me awhile. I started the book ten years ago. Then I put it off for a while before picking it back up again. Such is the process of a writer, I suppose!”

_“Why Sicily?”_

                   “I don’t know.”

                   Toni had already decided that he wasn’t going to mention the fact that the ending of the story had actually been the brainchild of his ex-wife. They had already been divorced for eight years now, as hard as they had tried to salvage the marriage. As hard as they had tried to rekindle the love, start the fire up again, love each other the way they were meant to be loved. They just hadn’t been able to do it. And it had been so long that he figured it would be pointless bringing her up.

                   Toni wondered why he was thinking about María. She hadn’t crossed his mind in so long.

                   The voice of the captain rang out across the plane, wrenching Toni from his thoughts.

                   “Attention passengers: please fasten your seatbelts. We are beginning our descent into Palermo.”

       

* * *

 

                   Lovino had forgotten that Feliciano was visiting for the weekend. So he was surprised beyond words when he walked into his front door and found his younger brother already at work in the kitchen.

                   “Lovi! You’re late!”

                   “Please, come inside, Feli. Break in if you have to.”

                   “Is that any way to treat your _fratellino_?”

                   Lovino smiled and kissed Feliciano’s cheeks. Lovino was happy to see him. It had been a few months since he’d visited Feliciano in Rome.

                   “I made spaghetti. You hungry?”

                   “Always.”

                   After dinner, they decided to take a walk by the beach. Arms linked, they slipped into shorts and sweaters and took to the streets of Palermo. Feliciano, as always, was talkative and energetic. He lifted Lovino’s spirits, and together they admired the sea and reminisced. On the way back, Feliciano froze mid-sentence and pulled Lovino back.

                   “Lovi!”

                   “Fuck, what is it?”

                   “Look!”

                   They were standing in front of a bookstore. There was a large poster in the window, depicting a book. It was an advertisement for a book event—a meet and greet with the author of the book that was topping the charts all over the globe. Lovino had seen the ads.

                   “The book signing is tomorrow!”

                   “I know. I live here.”

                   “Well? Are we going?”

                   Lovino stared at the poster. The truth was that he hadn’t been planning on going. In fact, he had been planning on avoiding it at all costs.

                   “We have to,” Feli cried. “He was our professor at school!”

                   “I know that.”

                   “Tomorrow at five.”

                   “Fine, fine, we’ll do the stupid book signing.”

                   “I wonder if he’ll recognize us after all this time?”

                   “Probably not.”

                   “Have you read the book?”

                   “Yeah.”

                   “And? What did you think?”

                   “I think it’s a masterpiece, of course,” Lovino shrugged. He and Feliciano began their trek back home. “But I couldn’t stand the ending.”

                   “Really? I thought it was very poetic. Ludwig and I read it together and we both liked the ending.”

                   “Just seemed like bullshit to me. What was the point of killing the kid? I don’t get it.”

                   “That’s strange to hear from a writer,” Feliciano teased. “I feel like you would understand.”

                   “I don’t.”

                   “Bet it was nice and relatable for you, though. The main character being from Sicily and all.”

                   “Yeah. I guess.”

                   “I loved it. Every word.”

                   “Me, too.”

                  

* * *

 

                   Toni had wanted to save Palermo for last, because he thought it would be more symbolic that way—the main character, the child that everyone so loved and identified with, was from Palermo. So, he thought, they should’ve gone there last. But Eduardo had insisted that they start the book tour off with a bang, and so in Palermo they would begin. And start with a bang they did. Before they even arrived at the bookstore, there was a line that stretched across the entire street. He had to enter from the back, for fear of being swarmed. If he was being honest with himself, Toni was terribly nervous. He had had relatively successful books before, but nothing like this. He’d never done a book signing of this size, and he was frightened that he would be overwhelmed. But, after the first few minutes, he fell magically into his rhythm. Conversed with the readers, answered their questions, signed each book with a different flavor.

                   “What was your favorite scene, _hijo?”_

“The scene where the general sings that lullaby for the child. It made me cry!”

                   Every person had a different opinion, a different thought, a different perspective about the book. Some people asked him if he had spent time in Sicily to better learn the culture and the dialect, because it seemed that he knew it very well from the way he developed the Sicilian child. But his answer was always, “No, I’ve actually never spent more than a few days in Sicily at a time.”

                   “How do you know the culture so well?”

                   “I know a few Sicilian people who helped me.”

                   The most amazing part was that there were people thanking him. Thanking him for helping them learn, helping them grow, carrying them through tough and dark times in their lives. Thanking him from the bottom of their heart, and it was an amazing reminder of why he wrote in the first place. It wasn’t just something for him. It was for his readers.

                   As Toni signed the books, spoke with the readers of all ages, one after the other, he couldn’t ignore the small tug in the back of his brain. The sliver of hope that was there. The desire that he had been trying to conceal since landing in Palermo. It was growing larger and larger. But he accepted disappointment before it even came. He watched the sun setting. His signatures became less extravagant. His attempts at Sicilian (which he had become rather adept at) slurred.

                   _So he’s not going to come after all?_

 

* * *

 

“Lovi, are you okay? You seem on edge.”

                   “I’m fine.”

                   “Wow, this line is long. We’ll be standing here forever!”

                   Somehow, though they had arrived at five o’clock sharp, they found themselves near the very end of the line. They had to stand outside for over two hours, slowly inching forward. With each passing second Lovino’s heart fell further down in his stomach, his grip on the hardback book in his hand tightened. He was sweating bullets. He needed to remind himself to breathe.

                   _Why do I feel this way?_

_It’s already been ten years, hasn’t it?_

Lovino had lost hope that the book would ever be published. So when it had come out, and come out with a storm, he hadn’t been expecting it. It had taken him completely by surprise. And he was having trouble sorting out his thoughts about it.

                   “I remember it like it was yesterday—I’d never even had a single class with him, and I went to visit him and ended up crying like a baby in his office,” Feliciano chuckled. “I’m sure he remembers you much more clearly. You had class with him for both semesters that he was there.”

                   “Maybe. But he did have a lot of students.”

                   Lovino knew, of course, that he would remember. The book was proof of that.

                   When they finally stepped into the bookstore, Lovino thought that he was going to faint. The air was familiar. The smells familiar.

                   _I was right._

_I can’t do this._

He heard his voice.

                   “Thank you for coming!”

                   Speaking in Sicilian.

                   “I’m so glad you enjoyed my book.”

                   _I can’t do this..._

They were next.

                   “Lovi, we’re next!”

                   The people standing in front of them moved aside.

                  

* * *

 

                   Antonio Fernández Carriedo lifted his head, smiling, pen in hand. Ready for the next person in line.

                   His gaze fell on a pair of amber eyes and thick eyelashes—the same amber eyes that he’d seen so many times in his dreams.

                   Everything else disappeared.

                  

* * *

 

                   Lovino Vargas met those warm, green eyes and gripped his book.

                  

* * *

 

                   Hola, querido.

                   Comu semu?


End file.
